


The Emerald Circle

by ApprenticeofDoyle



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Fluff, BAMF!Watson because I have good taste, Bisexual John Watson, Case Fic, Coming Out, Community: holmestice, Getting Together, Gun Violence, Historical Depictions of Queer Identity and Language, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Drunken Shenanigans but no dubcon, Mild Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Reichenbach, Relationship Negotiation, Victorian Gay Bars, demisexual/aspec!Holmes, gender nonconformity, mild possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24378415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/pseuds/ApprenticeofDoyle
Summary: A case and a young client forces Watson to admit a long-kept secret to Holmes, and the two of them are pressed to go undercover at a private club with a very particular clientele.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 57
Kudos: 197
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	The Emerald Circle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [two_nipples_maybe_more](https://archiveofourown.org/users/two_nipples_maybe_more/gifts).



> Hello everyone! Happy Holmestice! This is a gift for **natrix_natrix** (aka two_nipples_maybe_more), based off their prompts (I tried to do a little bit of several!): Angst from Reichenbach, gnc!Holmes and/or aspec!Holmes, healthy relationship negotiation, and Holmes and Watson being soft with the Irregulars.
> 
> This was written with the fantastic Granada television show, Sherlock Holmes (1984)—starring the incomparable Jeremy Brett—in mind, but you are welcome to imagine any Holmes you like. (For canon fans, it's a pretty close adaptation, with only two notable differences: a) some stories are out of order, i.e. some episodes of _Return_ are from _Adventures_ and b) Watson does not marry. *eyes emoji*). In my head and the timeline of the show, this fic takes place after "The Musgrave Ritual". 
> 
> As for Watson, I tend to waffle with equal love between David Burke and Ed Hardwicke myself, so choose whoever speaks to you in the moment. :)

**_The Emerald Circle_ **

I awoke to the sound of an explosion.

Flinging myself upwards in bed, I strained my ears through sudden silence and heard only the thundering of my pulse. The morning was abruptly quiet, my bedroom still and sun-lit yellow, and for a moment I wondered whether the sound had been real at all. 

The moment passed, however, at the faint thread of cursing emanating through the floorboards, and I exhaled a sigh of relief. Distant memories of gunfire and the Afghan fields withdrew their cold fingers from my mind, and my thoughts turned hotly to the floor below. Annoyance dousing the adrenaline in my blood, I threw off my bedcovers, seized my morning robe, and shrugged into it on my way downstairs.

“Holmes!”

A strong, peculiar odor met my nostrils as I stomped into the sitting room, and I coughed and waved a hand through the smoke-filled air to see Holmes, sleep-robed, bent over an overflowing mess of chemicals on his desk.

“Remarkable, but inconclusive,” my friend muttered to himself. “Far too much smoke." His voice brightened, but he did not turn to greet me. "Good morning, Watson! I've determined that the liquid traces we found on Richard Hemingway's garden tile cannot, in fact, be the uncommon distillation of—" He twisted in his chair, expression alight with discovery, but when his eyes fell upon me they widened a small degree.

“Ah,” Holmes said delicately. “My apologies, Watson, I did not intend to wake you."

I glowered, sharply tying my robe closed. "I don't suppose you could have waited to test your hypothesis until the _afternoon_ , Holmes?"

"The imperative of my work, my dear fellow, never wanes, nor should it," said Holmes. My expression must have been something to behold, for Holmes succumbed to an exceptional wince. "But I apologize regardless, for having roused you so rudely. Please, allow me to call Mrs. Hudson for tea."

"Holmes—" 

" _Mrs. Hudson!"_ I cringed at the bellow that volleyed over my head down the hall. "Some tea, if you please!"

"Yes, thank you, Holmes," I said tiredly, and released a sigh that issued from some realm deep within myself. I rubbed my eyes and found myself migrating to my study, habit carrying me through bleariness. "Have you made any progress then, other than the creation of a most effective neighborhood alarm clock?"

"None whatsoever," Holmes said promptly. In rare form, he seemed to relish the point. "This case is proving to be a remarkable challenge, Watson. A palate cleanser, of a kind, after such a series of trivial affairs."

I tutted. "Come now, the Whitechapel arsonist wasn't _so_ trivial, was he?"

Holmes scoffed. "An upstart aristocrat looking to add thrill to his otherwise entitled existence. Positively _mundane_." He uttered the word with deepest distaste.

"I imagine the people whose homes he burned would disagree," I said dryly, reaching for the already-perused morning paper lying across my side-table.

"Another mugging in Kent and mere politics this morning, nothing worth noting."

With measured slowness, I dropped the edge of my paper low enough to raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Wisely, Holmes lifted his palms in surrender, retreating to his desk to leave me in peace as Mrs. Hudson entered with tea for the both of us.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," we chorused in unison. On leaving, Mrs. Hudson hovered at the door.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, there was a note for you this morning, slipped through the mail-slot."

I peered over the entertainment section to watch Holmes take the missive, thank Mrs. Hudson, and examine the note with interest.

"...What is it, Holmes?"

A slow smile stretched across my friend's handsome features. "Curious," Holmes said. He crossed the room and extended the note to me with a pale hand. "What do you make of it, Watson? I wager even you could derive the more important details with little trouble."

“Even me, hmm?” The corner of Holmes’s thin mouth twisted upwards at my expense. I huffed, biting down the unruly urge to return the smile for fear of encouraging him, and plucked the note from his hands. Bringing it to eye level, I was forced to admit at least one detail was particularly obvious. "Well. Judging from the colorful grammar and rudimentary handwriting, I'd say this note was written by a child. Or at least, someone with little literary education."

Holmes hummed, eyes glimmering as he set about pouring two cups of Earl Grey's mixture. "Mm, the former, I should say. Note the fading scent of barley sugars and faint stickiness along the letter’s creases."

"You’re hardly the only adult in London with a preference for sweets, my friend,” I teased.

“Whom among us is currently decimating London’s supply of humbugs?” he retorted.

I failed this time to bury a smile, but ignored his comment in favor of reading the note’s squiggling scrawl aloud. “Dear Mr. Holmes.” My mouth twitched at the spelling of "Mistah" and "Homes". "I am writing because I need your help. Wiggy has told me you are a very smart gov and that you help...erhm, ‘youngins’ even when they've naught pence. Please can I meet with you and the doc at your...bless me, I do believe that word is intended to be ‘ _convenience’._ Yours, Fred. Goodness. How very charming."

"I have certainly received less polite requests for my expertise,” said Holmes, amused. “As for the aforementioned "Wiggy", I believe he is a fellow that the both of us are acquainted with."

"Young Wiggins," I agreed. "One of your Irregular rascals?"

"Possibly, though I don't recall a ‘Fred’ among their legion. More likely it is an acquaintance of Wiggins—perhaps one who, for some reason, has been unable or unwilling to assist me in the work I've offered his compatriots."

I frowned over the grubby, blank back of the note. "However are you supposed to reply with no return address?"

"Quite easily, my dear fellow." My friend stooped first to offer me a generous, piping cup of tea, and then moved casually to the sitting room window. In a smooth motion Holmes opened it, dangled himself out into the crisp October air, and inserted two fingers in his mouth. A high, clear whistle pierced the morning, resounding off the cobblestone below in two swift trills, and Holmes turned back to me with a spark in his grey eyes.

"Look sharp, Watson, we shall be entertaining visitors within a quarter hour. I believe Mr. Hemingway’s case can wait for us to hear out another."

"How on earth—"

"Wiggins always has at least one of his associates posted in front of Barnes’s Books, in case their services are required. I've requested a meeting, and he should receive the message as fast as a young lad can run."

"Which should be soon," I surmised, and with a heavy, half-hearted sigh, I reluctantly set down my tea and stood to get dressed. I should have anticipated, with the morning's explosion, that a quiet afternoon in would be out of the question. Perhaps, despite the hour, I could convince kindhearted Mrs. Hudson that some scones were in order in expectation of young guests.

* * *

Not long after Holmes and I had traded our morning wear for proper clothes, Mrs. Hudson was knocking on the sitting room door frame.

“Two young gentlemen to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, and the unmistakable note of fondness of her tone made all too certain a near-future of fresh pastries. Stepping aside to allow our house guests entry, I saw precisely why her motherly instincts had been roused.

“Mornin’, Mr. ‘Olmes,” said young Wiggins, looking as rumpled and cocksure as ever. It had been years since I first met the lad, and he had sprouted up like a weed, freckled and mop-haired. Soon he’d be too tall for the threadbare clothes on his body, and idly I wondered whether any of Holmes’s castoffs would suit the boy. “I got your message, and I took t’liberty of guessin’ why you might've wanted a meeting.” Holmes lifted an eyebrow, inclining his head, and Wiggins nudged the fellow at his side with a gentle elbow. “G’won then, Fred.”

The Fred in question was, to my surprise, much younger than any of the children I had met from Wiggins’s outfit. At a glance, he looked hardly six or seven years old if my experience as a physician told me any better, though it was impossible to say with certainty considering how short and thin the child was. While all the Irregulars were waifish to the point of concern, the young lad in front of us now could hardly have weighed more than two and half stone. Curly brown hair was lopped in thickets around tiny pink ears, and moth-bitten clothes hung oddly from his frame, his trousers and shirt-cuffs rolled at the sleeves as though meant for a child much taller.

Head barely up to Wiggins’s shoulder, Fred’s dirt-smudged cheeks flushed as he stepped forward, ducking a bashful chin. “H-Hullo,” said Fred in a small voice, brown eyes flickering nervously between Holmes and myself. “I’m Fred Ables.” After that, he seemed quite unable to continue, eyes locked upon Holmes with an expression caught between awe and a dreadful spot of nerves.

Taking pity on the poor little chap, I smiled. “A pleasure to meet you, Fred,” I said kindly. Wide brown eyes swiveled unblinkingly to mine. “I’m Doctor Watson.” I gestured to Holmes’s expectant form beside me. “And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We received your message earlier this morning. Why don’t you sit and tell us what it is you need our help with?”

Swallowing, the boy nodded, and I gestured to the couch.

“Would either of you like some tea?”

“Ta very much, Doc,” Wiggins said, answering for his young friend and giving him a meaningful look. I set about it, and in the corner of my eye watched with some amusement as Holmes sat down in his study across from our guests, leg crossed, and said not a word. Young Fred looked like he wanted to sink into the couch under my friend’s silent, penetrating attention, and after a moment of the boy’s torture, I pointedly cleared my throat. Holmes’s quicksilver gaze flickered briefly to me and the meaningful tilt of my chin, and with a near-imperceptible twitch of the lip, his attention returned to the boy with a less immutable expression.

“How can I be of service to you, Mr. Ables?” Holmes asked.

The boy visibly gathered his courage. “T-Thank you for meetin’ me, Mr. ‘Olmes.” With a full sentence, I recognized that the boy’s voice had the hints of a Scottish burr, the likes of which I’d not heard from a child since I was a boy myself in Edinburgh. “Wiggy told me you were the best in the city to go to when someone was wantin’ help and well…” The boy trailed off, and his dark eyes glittered with a sheen of unshed tears. “I—I be needing it, sir.”

Moved as always by the sight of a child in distress, I quickly handed the young lad and his companion a cuppa. “Here you are, lad. A cup of tea to stiffen that upper lip, hmm?” Tiny hands wrapped around warm porcelain, and I gave him a reassuring smile. “You’re in the right place, Fred. If anyone in this city can help you out of trouble, it’s Sherlock Holmes.”

The boy gave me a watery smile, and I returned to my study at Holmes’s side, who was wearing that quiet, gratified expression he did whenever I complimented him in front of others. After all these years—even from me—he was still as receptive to praise as a schoolgirl. Fortunately for him, his powers never failed to impress, and I remained unchangingly astounded by him every day we shared together.

“Give ‘im the details, Freddie, don’t waste Mr. ‘Olmes’s time,” Wiggy chided, and the boy clutched his teacup and nodded his head.

“It’s—it’s my brother, sir,” Fred said. “He’s in trouble. I ain’t seen him in two days, sir, and he’d never not come ‘ome without tellin’ me where he went off to.”

“Your older brother,” Holmes clarified. “Your caretaker.”

Fred nodded vigorously. “He looks after me, he—” He stumbled over his words, eyes going wide like a doe’s. “Mr. ‘Olmes, how—how’d you guess he was my older brother?”

“Your clothes, young sir, are certainly second-hand, previously owned by another who was at some point your age—but they are not old enough to have been once owned by a parent, or new enough to have been recently bought used, in their state. Siblings are the most common source for clothing that’s passed down.” Holmes lifted a dark eyebrow. “As to his being responsible for you, I find it highly unlikely that a parent would allow their child to seek the services of a private detective alone, if they were aware their child was missing.”

“Oh,” Fred whispered, looking practically starstruck. “Yes, these were Peter’s clothes, when he was my size. Mum died two years ago, and our da hasn’t shown his mug since before I were born, Peter says. But it’s why I know he’s in trouble, Mr. ‘Olmes, Peter looks after me! He wouldna just leave!”

“Calm yourself, young man,” Holmes said. “How long has he been gone?”

Fred sniffed once, and rather heroically straightened his small shoulders. _Tough little lad,_ I thought. “Almost two ‘ole days, sir. He was meant to come ‘ome Tuesday night and he never did. I thought he mighta been workin’ all night at the shipyard and bunked wit’ a friend but he woulda told me if he ‘ad. But then he didn’t come 'ome last night neither and I asked about ‘im down at the yard and everybody said they hadn’t seen ‘im today and that he was goin’ ta be let go if he didna show tomorrow!” By the end of it, the boy was practically breathless, edging dangerously into bright-eyed distress.

“Did you ask when your brother had last been seen at work?” Holmes pressed.

“Tuesday afternoon, they said, he left off for ‘ome. Ain’t nobody’s seen ‘im since.”

Holmes abruptly stood, casting towards the fireplace in the direction of his tobacco slipper. “Has your brother any other engagements, Fred? A fiancée, perhaps? Or any friends, that might have kept him?”

Fred looked despairing. "No, no, he's too busy lookin' after me to be courtin' any lass or to be havin’...uh-quaint-nances. He says it's his duty 'n pr-privilege but..." Fred sniffed. "But I know he sometimes wish he didna have to. But he wouldna leave me, I know it!"

“No time for courtship or friends,” Holmes hummed. Nimble fingers struck a flame close to the edge of his pipe. “And how old is your brother?”

“Old ‘nough sir, he just turned twenty years.” I swallowed a rueful smile. Twenty would seem old to such a young boy, but to me, it seemed barely out of childhood. But then again, most of the lads I had enlisted with had been younger than that.

“Has your brother been acting oddly recently? Did he seem upset, angry, or worried when last you saw him?”

“Nooo. Peter wasna mad or nothing. He was even smilin’ when he went off t’work.”

“At which shipyard is he employed?”

“Wilshem, sir, just off the A...Ah. The Ah-dephi pier, sir.” _Adelphi Pier_ , I assumed. Close enough. The boy smiled briefly, as though proud to remember, and I couldn’t help feeling impressed with his elocution and good memory, considering his age. “It’s a good job. Peter says it’s a lot safer than the other ‘uns closer to where we live.”

“And where is that?”

“East End, sir. Old Nichol.” I pressed my lips together. One of the poorer areas in a particularly impoverished neighborhood. I knew as well as any Londoner the state of the East End, but the idea of children like Fred living in such squalor was a grim thing: a reminder, of the desperate state of living for so many of English citizens.

“A long commute for a man to trek in the night hours, the Strand to the East End,” Holmes commented. He puffed experimentally around his pipe. “But worth it, I assume, to work in a safer neighborhood?”

“Yes, Mr. ‘Olmes,” Fred agreed, bobbing his small head. “Peter said he wanted to move us out of East End one day, someplace safer. I told ‘im I was a'right when he were workin’ but he did worry about me an awful lot, bein’ by meself at ‘ome.”

“Your brother sounds like a good man,” I said, and Fred nodded, his small eyes glittering.

“Yes, sir. The best. I don’t know where he’s gone or what’s happened but I’ve _got_ to find ‘im.” Fred’s voice was plaintive, twisting my heartstrings. “Please, Mr. ‘Olmes. Will you ‘elp me?”

All three heads in the room swiveled to Holmes, who was puffing at his pipe with energy. “No leads, no evidence of foul play but for the manner of his disappearance, and no crime scene to examine,” he muttered, and I turned my head to give him a look that said clearly, _we must do something, Holmes._

His eyes found mine through curling tobacco smoke and responded with equal plainness, _Obviously, my dear fellow, as if I could ever dismiss such a challenge._

“You have successfully engaged my interest and my services, Mr. Ables,” Holmes said. The boy practically spasmed with joy on our couch, straightening like a ruler.

“Really?” he said, voice high with disbelief. 

Wiggins clapped a hand on the young boy’s shoulder. “Told ya ‘e would believe you, Freddie. Mr. ‘Olmes can smell foul doings a mile off.” 

“We will require your home address, in case we need to reach you and search your home for evidence of your brother’s location,” Holmes said, and Fred nodded eagerly, rattling it off at rapid speed. I scrawled it down in my notebook, below the name of Peter’s place of work. “But for now, we will visit your brother’s place of work to interview his colleagues.” 

“Yes, sir! And I can help you find ‘im!”

Holmes’s mouth twitched, perhaps in amusement at the boy’s exuberance, or perhaps in mild panic at the idea of a child tugging at our heels for an entire investigation. “You would aid us best, Mr. Ables, by remaining safe at home and waiting to see if your brother returns. If something is indeed afoot and your brother is caught in the web of something dangerous, it is far better for you to remain out of harm’s way.” When the young boy looked unconvinced, Holmes lifted a considering eyebrow. “But I shall give you a task, hmm?” The boy nodded, so enthusiastically I feared his head would dislodge from his neck. 

“As no one could examine your place of residence better than you, I would ask you to search it top to bottom for any clues to your brother’s whereabouts.”

“Oh! No problem, Mr. ‘Olmes!” Fred exclaimed.

“Excellent,” Holmes said, with a placating smile I knew to be practiced. “Then you—”

“I already did it, sir! I turned the place over lookin’ for a letter from ‘im in case I missed it!” The boy looked near-ecstatic with his success, and I bit my lip at Holmes’s blink of surprise. His elegant solution to keeping the boy at home and out of harm’s way was foiled out the gate, it seemed.

“Erhm, very good,” Holmes said, and with amusement I saw that his smile had strained somewhat at the corners beneath Fred’s ebullience.

“I even found somethin’! ‘idden beneath Peter’s bed! ‘E told me not to look under there and I always listened even when I didna want to, but I s’posed now was alright, and look!”

Extricating something from his pocket, Fred lifted a hand victoriously to present something to the open air, and it was as if time stood still. I sat, frozen, and felt the blood drain from my face.

“Curious,” I heard Holmes say, through the drumming of my pulse in my ears. I watched him, ice spreading through my veins, as he trailed across the carpet to take the object from Fred’s hands. Grey eyes inspected it with an interest that filled me with a terrible, paralyzing dread.

“Fine green silk,” Holmes remarked, turning it over in his hands. “Wrapped around stiff metal wire, likely woven iron. Too small to be worn around the wrist, and too plain to be a lady’s trinket, despite the silk’s expense. You say this was hidden, Fred? Underneath your brother’s bed?”

“In a box that was Mum’s. Peter keeps money in it and some letters, but I cannae read ‘em. And I can read and write proper good! Peter taught me how! But they’re all wrong, the words are all mixed together.”

Holmes’s eyes glittered. “An _excellent_ find, Mr. Ables. You’ll make a detective yet.” Fred beamed, pink with pleasure at the compliment. “We will require those letters posthaste, it is possible they are of supreme importance. But until then, Watson—” 

Holmes’s attention turned to me, and his smooth voice faltered. I felt my stomach plummet as those London fog eyes fixed upon me, absorbing my rigid expression and the layers of data stored within it with that determined, uncanny skill I knew I had no chance of diverting. That militant mind would seek out and reveal any secret I could ever attempt to hide, interpreting their meanings and disseminating their truths without hesitation or slightest effort.

Truths I knew, from the moment Fred lifted that green circlet from his pocket, would be dragged into the light. I had known for years that this moment was inevitable. After all this time, I had deluded myself into hoping the day might never come. But my deepest secrets had finally come knocking upon the door, and Holmes was to learn that which I had endeavored to conceal from him from the very first day of our friendship.

I met his gaze, swallowing hard, and prayed that the sudden concern I found within it would not soon be replaced with hostility. I knew my place in Holmes’s affection was an outlier. This secret could prove to be the hammer on the coffin nail of our partnership, the impetus to send me from his side permanently. 

“Gentlemen,” Holmes said. His voice betrayed nothing of his concern as he turned on a prim heel, carefully setting the silk ring down upon the tea table. “Watson and I have much to do, and must discuss this case amongst ourselves. Wiggins, if you would kindly escort Fred home and bring back those letters he found?” He reached for a spare shilling on the mantle, palming it to the older boy.

“You got it, Mr. ‘Olmes,” Wiggins said, saluting. “C’mon, Fred!”

Fred hopped off the couch, and after a beat of clear hesitation, he nervously tottered forward to wrap his arms around Holmes’s dark trouser leg. 

“Thank you, Mr. ‘Olmes,” Fred whispered, as Holmes stiffened. Slowly, as if through concentration of will, Holmes relaxed, and gingerly reached out a hand to pat the boy once, perfunctory, on the head.

“Very good, Mr. Ables,” Holmes said, with only the slightest discomfort. “Off you go. We have a missing brother to locate.”

Fred looked up, his eyes shining with admiration, and nodded. He released Holmes’s leg and scuttled back to Wiggins’s side, who was watching with a rather smug look on his face. Holmes quirked an eyebrow, and Wiggins gave another, jauntier salute.

“We’ll be off then, gov,” he said, winking. “Be back with those letters right away.”

With that, the boys trotted out of the sitting room and left us alone. An invisible hand took hold of my heart in my ribcage, squeezing ruthlessly.

I could not deny the truth. I had deceived him for long enough. But the fear was old and powerful beneath my skin, anxiety making my palms sweat and my lungs ache. I was at once hideously grateful that I had kept my practice after Holmes returned. I had kept it for the supplementary income in the event our caseloads ever ran dry, as they occasionally did, and it could—it _would—_ support me, if this went the way I feared most. I would survive, I told myself. I would survive, even if my heart did not.

“My dear Watson,” Holmes started, and I almost closed my eyes at the appellation. It was possible this was the last time I would ever hear it. His attention upon me was intense, but the open concern on my friend’s face was a marvel. Before his “death”, Holmes had rarely expressed even the more general of human emotions to me, but towards what I once considered the end, that had begun to change. After his return, I found myself frequently taken aback by the degree of feeling which Holmes allowed to seep into his expressions and tone in my presence, and now was no exception. But this new openness left room for greater pain: here, I had no choice to admit that which could destroy my friend’s trust in me completely.

“Never in my life have I seen such a look of fright cross your face as when you looked at that ring,” Holmes said. His voice was low and cautious, as though weary of upsetting me merely by broaching the subject. “And the manner in which you look at me now unsettles me a great deal. Pray, my friend, tell me what has disturbed you so.”

A hunk of quartz had lodged itself in my throat. “Holmes,” I said. My shoulders threatened to slump, but I steeled myself. I had faced more frightening danger, I told myself. What is this to war? To Maiwand? This was only Holmes. 

_Precisely,_ a quiet voice said in my ear. _It’s Holmes._

“You recognized that ring,” Holmes said. It was not a question. His eyes seemed to dig their way into my very soul. “It means something to you.”

“Yes,” I said thickly. “Yes, I recognize it. I have seen it before, and I know what it means. Where it is from.” Holmes said nothing, clearly waiting for me to continue, tension taking hold of his lithe body and furrowing his brow.

“You were correct when you said it was not jewelry, or a bracelet. But it is meant to be worn.” I lifted a hand to my left breast, over my pounding heart. “It is meant to be displayed in the front pocket.”

“Displayed to whom?”

This was unbearable. I could not tolerate tearing the bindings from this wound with such slowness. “It is a sign of membership,” I said. In self-preservation, emotion had abandoned my voice. “After admittance, and an oath of secrecy, one is awarded a ring such as that to act as a manner of entrance to a bar. An exclusive club out in Ratcliffe. The Emerald Circle.”

“I am...unfamiliar with the establishment,” Holmes admitted, looking discomfited by the fact.

“I am not surprised,” I said. I swallowed hard. “It is an invert club, Holmes. A bar for homosexuals.”

Holmes’s eyebrows shot upwards, and his eyes grew wide. I summoned my courage, unwilling to stop now that I had struck the match, and clenched my hands on the arms of my study chair. 

“I know the place because I have been there,” said I. “Several times. I am a member, Holmes. And I have a ring just like that one, hidden in my wardrobe.”

Holmes was silent. He looked at me as if he had never seen me before. My heart was eclipsed with misery.

“I am sorry, Holmes." My gaze dropped to the floor, unwilling to witness the moment where his surprise transformed into something different. Shame filled me, not because it was the truth, but because it had made me a liar. I had never wanted to deceive Holmes. He was my dearest friend, a companion in life the likes of which I had never met and never would again. It had broken my heart daily to conceal my whole self from him, foolish as it was to desire that he know me completely when there was so much between us we did not speak of. I could scacrely fathom how I had managed to fool him, and it had privately gutted me that I had been so successful. That it could cost me the greatest friend I had ever known filled me with grief.

“It was never my intention to conceal my nature from you.” Pain stole the volume from my voice. “But I have seen recrimination and violence too many times to risk revealing myself before knowing your character. With time, it grew too late to tell you the truth. I was afraid the confession would lead you to draw conclusions about my...living here, with you, and the possibility of...” I shook my head, cutting myself off before I dug the hole too deep to escape. “The truth of it is that I had come to enjoy your companionship too much to risk revealing my preferences to you. Your work amazed me. I felt more alive at your side, watching you solve cases, than I ever had in the months after returning from Afghanistan. I was afraid, and so I did not tell you.” 

I inhaled sharply, and the oxygen seemed to dagger holes in my lungs. “I understand if you can no longer abide my presence here in 221B. My only request is that you withhold the truth from Mrs. Hudson. I could not bear—”

“Watson.”

That voice, sonorous and flat, sent a jolt through my heart. My eyes were tugged unbidden from the floor to my friend, who was looking at me with such tremendous disapproval that my sternum seemed to crack apart in my chest.

“If you believe for a moment,” said Holmes, “that I would cast you out for something beyond your control, I have failed in my friendship to you.”

I gaped, not unlike a freshly caught perch.

Holmes looked strangely agitated. “I know that I seem to many an—an ‘ _unfeeling machine,’_ ” said he, and I winced. “But I have indeed failed egregiously, Watson, if you consider me so low as to dismiss years of our friendship for something so _deeply_ illogical as sexual prejudice _._ ” He said the phrase with the same disdain with which he uttered the words ‘marriage’ or ‘musical theatre’. “Truly I have mistepped, for I thought I had made clear that I was a man of science, of _reason,_ and as such above the crude, regressive notions of organized religion.”

“Holmes—”

“It seems I must rectify this error,” Holmes continued, barreling through my protest like a steam engine. The frustration in his voice had dissolved into something less heated, but equally determined. “I am not angry. Disappointed, perhaps, in myself for being so incredibly unobservant about a man with which I have shared lodgings, who I believed to know to the very habit—” Again, I winced, “—but that lack of attention is my deficit, not yours.”

“Holmes,” I said, staring at him in disbelief. 

“I would send you nowhere, Watson.” Holmes held my eyes, unaware that within his grasp was my heart, as well. “You have proven yourself to be a man of incomparable loyalty and character, and I would do my utmost to preserve our friendship through any difficulty. I am...humbled, to learn—and to keep secret—your nature, but know, my dear fellow, that it sends not a wave against the dam.”

The jagged stone in my throat had returned, and I struggled to dispel the mist which had sprung into my eyes.

“...thank you, Holmes,” I whispered.

“There is nothing to thank,” Holmes said calmly. The iron intensity that had shone from his eyes had ebbed, sliding behind more opaque glass. “Our country’s laws on the subject are a point of conservatism that I consider both backward and unacceptably cruel. I do not blame you for your reluctance in speaking to me about it, especially when there is much of the personal which we do not discuss with one another. I can only offer you my regrets that you felt you could _not_ reveal it to me.” His voice softened. “And that you have experienced intolerance from others. Our species is often a callous one, and set in its ways even at the suffering of its own kind. You deserve much more than what our contemporaries offer you, Watson.”

It was only through years in the service that I managed not to cry openly. This was more than I had dreamed of. I was so moved I could barely speak, and underneath it, I felt a relief so powerful I felt weak. I felt joy. I felt foolish,that I could ever have doubted Holmes like I did. I felt thrilled, to be seen and known and not cast aside, to be _embraced_.

“Thank you,” I said again, believing my heart could burst from so much feeling.

Holmes’s expression softened further. “You are always a friend to me, Watson,” he said gently. “No other has earned that title more.” A beat of hesitation, and the faintest of wavering before Holmes said, with less confidence, “And I would have no other before you. Very few, after all, would have me.”

“They don’t realize what they’re missing,” I said, and Holmes huffed dismissively, eyes sliding from me in a moment of brief, rare modesty. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you from the first. I feel a fool, having spent years torturing myself for nothing. I know you are no machine, Holmes. You are the best man I know. But mine was an old fear, one that would abide no reason.”

“I understand. We can speak no more of it, if it is a cause of discomfort. But I’m afraid, knowing this truth about you, that I may be unable to avoid asking you some questions.”

I blinked. “…I’m at your service, Holmes,” I said, becoming suddenly aware of how surreal a conversation we were headed towards. “I will answer anything within my knowledge.”

Holmes pressed his lips together, brow wrinkling. Clearly, he felt as left-footed as I did, even in so familiar a realm as asking me idle questions. “Do you know the elder Mr. Ables? Is his name familiar to you?”

“No,” I said immediately. I resisted the foreign urge to twist my hands together in awkwardness. “I…haven’t been to the Circle in a few months or so, and that was only the once. I…had stopped attending, for a few years, and haven’t returned this year due to the recent…public feelings, towards the community.”

“I see,” Holmes said, frowning. “But you are…still an active member? Your ring, it still stands as a sign of valid entry?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It is very possible that Mr. Ables, if we are to believe the evidence that he was indeed a member of this club and a homosexual, went there sometime in the last two days. The younger Mr. Ables clearly has no notion to the meaning of his brother’s hidden band, and so he would have no way of knowing whether or not his brother went to the club, as opposed to directly home, two nights ago.”

“You believe he met danger at the Circle. Or encountered it leaving there.” My stomach twisted in dread.

“I guess to nothing, as you well know, but it must be ruled out. And considering the current political atmosphere, it would be negligent not to at least consider that Mr. Ables has encountered danger distinctly related to his sexuality, or choice of watering hole.”

“I understand,” I said warily. “…I could get us both in. I’ve been a member for years. The club is predicated on a circle of trust—we are permitted to introduce friends, but only if they intend to become members themselves.”

“Then we must go, Watson. Tonight.”

Tension rippled throughout my frame. “ I…do not think that is the best idea, Holmes. You are a public figure, by now. I do not like the idea of risking your reputation for a case, not when I could so easily go alone.”

“It will be far more expedient if the both of us went,” Holmes insisted. “You are my Boswell, Watson, but you cannot possibly ask the questions that I would likely pose. No, I must attend with you.”

“Holmes—”

“But if it reassures you, I will go in some manner of disguise. If not to wear when I enter, that at least to confuse any onlookers when we leave in the late evening.”

I sighed heavily. There would be no talking him out of avoiding a possible crime scene, and however much anxiety it stirred within me, I knew well that Holmes’s disguises and impersonations often outshone the stage. “Very well,” I said. “But I must go as myself. It is possible you will be recognized merely for our association.”

“I understand the risks, my dear fellow.” At my raised eyebrow, he frowned and said, more earnestly, “I realize the severity posed in being identified, Watson, much as I may detest the necessity of deception.”

“Tonight, then?” I said, knots furling in my chest. The apprehension I felt at bringing Holmes to such a place, knowing he could be immediately recognized, was mounting the more I considered it. I knew that no manner of argument would deter him, but still I wished he would leave the task to myself alone. The Cleveland Street business still tainted perceptions of us in the press, and Italy’s legalization of homosexuality had seemingly bolstered our country’s resistance to tolerance rather than softening it. Holmes, even if unaware of the Circle itself, was likely well-versed in the corruption that proliferated the Yard where invert-friendly pubs were concerned. There was every chance that this very night, the Circle could be raided. I had faced and feared that very possibility each night I went out, but the idea that Holmes’s face could be painted across the _Strand_ , the _Standard,_ and the _Post_ tomorrow morning—condemned, reputation ruined, facing prosecution—terrified me more than the same fate had ever frightened myself.

“And no later, my friend. Time is of the essence.”

“Alright,” I said gravely. “But you must promise me that you will not bring undue attention to yourself. I could not…” I cleared my throat, voice going gravel-rough as I attempted to conceal my anxiety. “I could not bear the responsibility of dragging your reputation through the mud, if you were recognized.”

Holmes lifted a roguish brow, and at any other time I might have cracked a smile. “You doubt my skills, Watson?” I crossed my arms, scowling at him, and he sighed. “Yes, yes, you have my word, my dear fellow. I will be the soul of subtlety. Understand I have no wish to draw the spotlight upon _you,_ either.”

“Thank you. What shall we do then, until the evening comes?”

“ _You_ shall rest here. My uncharitable ruckus this morning took a great deal of sleep from you—” I immediately opened my mouth to protest, “—whereas I have matters to attend to this morning in town. I will be back within a few hours, which should give you plenty of time to brunch and to doze. I expect we will be up very late tonight, my dear fellow.”

“Holmes—”

Holmes was on his feet, sweeping about for his coat, hat, and walking-stick. “I’ll not have you complaining of fatigue this evening, I require you at your most energized! This case could prove dangerous, and I’ll have you in no other state. You can be so terribly cantankerous, when underfed and ill-rested.”

“ _Holmes,_ ” I said, exasperated. Holmes tipped his head at the door, eyes flickering with amusement below the ebony brim of his hat. I realized that the scowl on my face had been transformed into a laughable, offended facsimile. Only Sherlock Holmes could lift weight from my shoulders by insulting me. 

“I’m off to gather intelligence,” Holmes said, swinging the door open, and he angled his chin over his shoulder. “Unless you have any other life-altering secrets to confess, Watson?”

My chuckle was but a hair too loud. “No, my friend. I’m afraid you know all of me there is to know.”

And it was close enough to the truth that when he smiled at me, eyes gleaming with the light of yet-unraveled mystery, I could mirror him without the slightest tremor.

* * *

Holmes returned by half past two, and with effort, I managed to convince him to swallow down some tea and one of Mrs. Hudson’s excellent pastries (baked fresh upon learning that young Wiggins would return later in the afternoon). Holmes had come home with some purchases in a small bag from a store I did not recognize the name of, and his very body seemed to crackle with anticipation for the night’s investigation. I was in the middle of telling him about the Circle’s neighborhood and culture—with as much respect for my fellow members' privacy as I felt was due—when Wiggins entered our sitting room, a scone already lodged in his mouth.

“I’ve brought those letters, Mr. ‘Olmes,” said he, after a noisy swallow.

“Very good, Wiggins,” Holmes said, lifting an expectant hand. Wiggins ambled over and handed a few scraps of parchment to Holmes, in exchange for a polished silver shilling. “Did you see the young Mr. Ables home safely?”

“My older sister is lookin’ after im,” Wiggins informed us. “She’s a maid and had a little work for ‘im to do, in exchange for some proper food til ‘is brother turns up.”

“I am glad to hear it,” I said earnestly, relieved that Fred had an adult looking after his needs while we worked our case.

“You will find ‘im, won’t you Mr. ‘Olmes?” Wiggins said, eyes narrowed.

“Protective of the young Mr. Ables, are we?” Holmes observed.

“He’s just a sprout,” Wiggins said. “ ‘N we look after our own.”

“Quite right,” I said fondly, and offered the lad another scone.

“We will do our very best, Wiggins,” Holmes said. “Until he is found, I would ask you rally your men into a search party.”

“Already done,” said Wiggins. “We've been lookin’ since Fred put us on it yesterday.”

“Promise of compensation should renew your energy,” Holmes said. “But I would advise you concentrate your efforts to the docks and Ratcliffe parish.” At the latter, Wiggins’s nose wrinkled.

“I understand it’s a distance. Your men will be paid for their trouble,” Holmes assured, lifting an eyebrow.

“S’not the distance, Mr. ‘Olmes. Easy ‘nough to hop on the back of a cab. Ratcliffe can be real rough at night. Gangs been havin’ tiffs in the streets for near a month now.”

“I would not encourage your men to risk,” Holmes said firmly. “If it is too dangerous—”

Wiggins shook his head. “We know how to duck trouble, Mr. ‘Olmes.” His green eyes sparkled. “It’ll just cost ya.”

Holmes visibly smothered a smile. “I see. The lot of you will split a pot, a handful of pence each. A two guinea prize to the man who can bring me any concrete information about Peter Ables.”

Wiggins tipped his tweed cap, grinning. “You’ve a deal, Mr. ‘Olmes!" For a moment, the boy's irrepressible mirth faded. "Freddie thinks the world of his brother. He’s a good one, as far as brothers go. I hope you can dig ‘im out of whatever trouble he’s wound up in.”

“As do I, Wiggins.” Holmes inclined a head. “Off with you. And _no risks._ I will know.”

“As you say, gov,” Wiggins said, and as he started off, I cleared my throat. He turned to see me with my hand extended, plate of scones balanced on my palm.

“Take a napkin full,” I encouraged quietly, winking, and Wiggins beamed.

“Ta, Doc.”

“And do be careful.”

“Always are.” With a parcel of Mrs. Hudson’s finest goods, the lad scarpered off, and I leaned back to see Holmes smiling at me. _Soft heart,_ his eyes teased, and I rolled my eyes. Pot to kettle.

“What do you make of the letters, Holmes?” I asked, to divert the affection building in my chest.

“Coded, as young Mr. Ables described,” Holmes said, grey eyes dropping to begin his dissection. “But Peter Ables is no mastermind, merely careful to conceal himself from any possible prying eyes. It is a simpler code, and one I’ve seen before.” He shifted through the papers, and at the last, his eyebrows lifted to his hairline. If I wasn’t mistaken, I thought I perceived a hint of a blush spreading across Holmes’s pale cheekbones.

“Holmes?”

Expression blank, Holmes handed them off to me without speaking, and I squinted at the first sheet. The letters were a jumble, each line an incomprehensible mess. Employing the more basic methods from Holmes’s manuscript on ciphers—ones I’d absorbed before falling asleep before the halfway mark—I checked the first letter of every word and the first letter of every line. No pattern emerged that I could see. The papers were wrinkled, but they weren’t folded or creased in any deliberate way, so it was unlikely that I needed to bend them to reveal any hidden truth.

“Well?”

“I can make nothing of it.”

“I implore you to study my treatise with more attention, Watson,” Holmes said haughtily, and I nodded like I always did at the suggestion. “I direct you to the first letter of the first word. And then to the second letter of the second word, and so on per line.”

“Ah.” I did so, and began to read. “It appears to be…a diary entry, of sorts, not a letter. He’s writing about his experiences at the Circle.” When the first was written, Peter Ables seemed to be a new member: his writing was enthused as he recorded his joy and gratefulness in finding such a place where he could meet others like himself. I moved to the next page, and found something more interesting, and distinctly more private. “Hmm. It appears that Mr. Ables had fancied someone he met at the Circle.” I moved to the next letter, and soon felt the tips of my ears heat. “Ah. The feeling was…quite mutual, it seems.”

“Indeed,” Holmes mustered, and I avoided his eyes. Pushing down any feelings of awkwardness and away any thoughts of the kind of which I was reading, I scanned the entries again and found myself frowning.

“There’s next to nothing of value about Mr. Ables’s new lover. Nothing that could point to his identity, or his appearance, or even his personality.”

“We must see if we can find him this evening, Watson,” Holmes said. “If anyone would possess knowledge outside of his younger brother and fellow employees about Peter Ables’s whereabouts, it would be he.”

I nodded in agreement. “It won’t be easy,” I warned. “It is a very secretive place, Holmes, and meant to be. You must not come off as a Yarder. Many have attempted to infiltrate clubs like these in the attempt to blackmail or arrest members for homosexual acts. Everyone is on their guard, now more than ever.”

“Trust me, Watson,” Holmes said. “It will hardly be my first time speaking to people of such persuasion with tact, and I do mean excluding you.”

Brow wrinkling, I opened my mouth to pursue that line of inquiry, but Holmes stood rapidly. “Now, I must prepare. Finish your meal, Watson. I’ve eaten all I could.” I frowned at the nibbled lunch upon his plate, but before I could protest he had disappeared into his bedroom with the packages he had bought earlier, and I was left to sit and marinate in my increasing anxiety.

Seven o’clock came too quickly, and by the chime of the mantle clock I was a mess of nerves. I had begun to fret over grim possibilities we might face tonight: first and foremost, arrest, and increasingly upsetting, the idea of Holmes lambasted in the press for charges of sodomy. I had nearly managed to convince myself to talk Holmes out of his idea—or more impulsively, leave for the Circle without him so he could have no means of entering and putting himself at risk—when Holmes’s bedroom door opened, and my train of thought collided with a brick wall.

“What do you think, Watson?”

Holmes was wearing clothing I had never seen him wear before. Gone was his standard black suit and pinstriped ensemble. Now he wore a lush, blue-emerald tailored coat, dark and long to his knees, which were capped by rather spiffing, crisp black boots that encased the length of his tapered, dark-trousered legs. Beneath his jacket was a dandyish pale dress shirt, ivory cream and tucked below an elegant velveteen vest with burnished sterling fastens, and a silken ascot was tied loosely around his neck. The entire costume bordered on ostentatious but hesitated near the line; I had seen many stage actors bow after the final curtain in similar getups, and many more wearing the same in the Circle itself.

My eyes moved to his face, and I found I could not recall to blink. Holmes’s eyes, which were striking alone with their singular, silver color, seemed somehow more arresting than before. I realized, with shock, that it was because they had been thinly lined with some sort of kohl. It would be invisible on the dark street, but in the low light of the Circle it would be finely noticeable, and it was terribly becoming. The brilliantine that normally slicked his hair back had been washed away to leave Holmes’s hair oddly loose and thick, almost as it was in the evenings and early mornings after a bath, but it had been smoothly combed in a classical coif. In a particularly foolish impulse, I imagined my fingers carding through those locks, determining their apparent softness for myself, and I tore my eyes away to inspect further. In effort to disguise his features, Holmes had masterfully applied hair from his sideburns down to his chin and around his mouth, forming a short, ebony beard and moustache.

Altogether, he looked like a rich dandy about to set out on the town, and a terribly dashing one at that. I felt at once hideously underdressed and strangely unsettled. I had known Holmes was handsome from the moment I met him, but the meaning, the unspoken language in his clothing—and the darkness surrounding his eyes, making them shine like steel in the low apartment light—seemed to rattle me to my bones. Feeling as if my tongue were inflated, I struggled for words.

“Holmes,” I managed. “You look like an actor from the Globe!”

“I have been saving this particular ensemble for an occasion such as this, Watson." Holmes said, and his teeth were a perfect peal of white in their new mustached surroundings. “I am glad you approve.”

“You will fit in,” I admitted. “Almost more than I might, but there are plenty of members who attend in their business wear. It is a club of all kinds, Holmes, for men and women.”

“We mustn’t delay, we need to make it all the way to Ratcliffe with time to spare to watch members come in. There is a possibility our man will leave quickly if he finds his lover is not in attendance, and I have no desire to prolong our reconnaissance to more than one night if we can help it. Grab your coat and your circlet, the game is afoot!”

* * *

By the time we arrived in the right neighborhood a half hour later, the London streets were dark and animated with streams of nightgoers, a mixture of working and upper class, young and old coming alive to seek entertainment or survive in the seedier allies of Ratcliffe. To prosper, clubs like the Circle were confined to areas such as these, where working girls stood sentinel at every street corner; the community flourished best where shadows were wanted, and where bureaucracy turned its blinder eye.

Entering the club had been as easy as a hello to the doorman and a cool introduction of my good friend, “William Vernet”. (I was lucky Holmes had chosen so easy an alias to remember.) Holmes said barely a thing, smiling with full charm as his name was added to the ledger and a circlet was given to him to wear, and just like that, we were ushered inside.

From the look of its façade, the Circle looked like your typical hole-in-the-wall, bookended by two more of its kind on a street of low-rent bars, molly houses, and brothels that barked and hollered into the night, spilling rowdily over into the London air with sounds of mirth and ruckus like so much broken bottle glass. The inside was not particularly special, to the casual viewer: there were no windows, the wallpaper was dark, and aside from the well-lit, creaky wooden stage for performances the entire place was lit with the scantiest of candlelight, lending the place the perfect, anonymous _boudoir_ air its patrons desired. The walls were lined in thick velvet curtains, which could be drawn over any seated alcove for privacy, and the place could practically be split in twain as the night went on, as the women took to the high stools at the right and the men took over the other side. The Circle was one of the fewer bars of its kind to allow women and I thought it just so too: the bar, dance floor, and stage were neutral areas no matter how very cliqueish the members were, and a few bouncers—also men and two particularly intimidating ladies—kept the peace better than any hired hand I'd seen.

The place had changed little since my last visit. The clamor of brassy music, loud laughter, and cloying smell of spilt liquor suffused me with memories, fond and bittersweet. I couldn’t help but recall the last time I'd been here—months before, hurting but on the mend, wondering if it would finally be the night I allowed myself to indulge in any advances.

It had not, and I had gone home with no one, nursing my loneliness as I had done for three years with no one to blame but myself.

The front hall was already well-populated with regulars, despite the early hour, and I recognized a few faces: not only from having seen them before but from newspapers as well. Judges, secretaries, and government men were a common sight here, and Holmes would no doubt recognize them immediately.

Eyes followed the two of us in, appraising. The odd twisting in my gut that had begun wounding at Baker Street snarled tighter at their attention as their lingering attention followed Holmes at my side.

“Shall we move to the bar, Watson?” Holmes muttered in my ear. “The bartender would be my first choice of witness. Service people see altogether more than most realize.”

“Good idea,” I said, through a fixed, casual smile, and tried not to let my expression shatter as Holmes unexpectedly took my arm and we moved together further into the establishment.

“The bar is just—” 

“As I live and breathe! The Watson moratorium has ended!”

Spinning on a bar stool, a familiar face had turned my way, mouth split into a wicked grin. I found my eyes already rolling good-naturedly at the very sight of an old friend. 

“I thought you were never coming back round,” Thomas Farrow crowed. I shared a look with a curious Holmes, and ambled my way to my friend’s side. At the sight of my friend, Thomas’s eyes sparked with mischief. “And look, miracles come in pairs! You devil, you’ve brought a plus one!”

“And you’re going to scare him off at this rate,” I teased. “Thomas, this is my friend, William Vernet.”

“How do you do?” Holmes said, voice smooth and slightly more posh than its usual tones, and Thomas practically beamed.

“William, this is my friend Thomas Farrow. We met some years ago on New Year’s and we’ve been acquainted ever since.” That night had been a particularly memorable one and had left the both of us—in total innocence—without a pair of trousers between us, and we had been fast friends from then on. The man was unapologetically chipper, bright, and colorful; his friendship and disposition had been the perfect counterpart to my more reserved and spectulatory demeanor, and he had proven to be a most excellent wingman several times over. I had missed him, I realized, but I knew better than anyone why I had not decided to return to the Circle in recent months: the reason stood beside me, hand outstretched to Thomas with an evaluating look on his face.

“A pleasure,” Thomas said, shaking Holmes’s gloved hand with aplomb. “Always a treat to see new faces round here. You’ll have to keep a watch on this one, old boy, you know how this crowd takes to fresh blood.” Thomas gave Holmes an appraising, playful look. “Especially when they’re as dapper as your friend here.”

“You’re incorrigible,” I said, laughing. Beside me, Holmes’s mouth was twisted with amusement. “Why do they continue to allow you in here?”

“A tremendous outstanding bar tab, my dear Captain. By this point, I’d characterize myself as a business investment.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“They haven’t stopped serving me yet. And they won’t, what with the way I tip.” Thomas cupped a hand over his mouth to cut through the ambient noise surrounding us. “Isn’t that right, Johann?”

“Haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Farrow,” replied the bartender, cleaning a whisky glass.

“There’s a chap.” Thomas swiveled on his bar stool, propping an elbow on the arm. “So what inspired you to return to the old hunting grounds, eh, Watson?”

I rolled my eyes once more at Thomas’s unabashed phraseology. “I have been busy, Thomas,” I said defensively. “I never intended to be away for so long, but I have been longing for a night out for some time.”

“Busy with all those cases, eh? I’ve kept up with your latest _Strand_ articles, John, it’s cracking stuff. That detective of yours is a real intellect.”

“Mmm, I suppose,” I hummed, biting the inside of my cheek, and beside me, Holmes cleared his throat.

“Pardon me, Mr. Farrow,” he said, “but perhaps you can offer me some assistance. Our good friend here was so kind as to grant me passage to this lovely establishment, but I confess there are ulterior motives to my presence here tonight.”

“Ulterior motives?” Thomas said, sandy eyebrows jaunting upwards. “Mr. Vernet, this is a society of ulterior motives.” I coughed pointedly and Thomas chuckled. “But I’m glad to be of service to anyone honest enough to admit it.”

Holmes issued a slow, amiable smile, leaning forward to engage Thomas’s confidence in a low tone. “I’m here to meet a good friend from circles outside this one. He mentioned that he was a member here in conversation, and I haven’t seen him since a certain bash in the East End left me with his address quite ruined—an unfortunate mishap with some spilled wine, you see.” 

“Oh, bless, now there’s a tragedy. But we’ve both been there, haven’t we, John?” Thomas elbowed me and I fought a furious blush as Holmes lifted a slow eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Holmes said, eyes shimmering. “But luckily, I was able to recall his name in full. I don’t suppose the name Peter Ables means anything to you?”

He paused as suddenly the bartender swept by from down the row, tossing a wet cloth below the bar.

“Drinks, gentlemen?” Johann asked, crossing his sturdy, muscular arms, and I shook my head.

“Not yet, Johann.”

“Speak for yourself, I’ll have another.” Thomas pointed a finger at me. “And so will you, if I have my way about it. You’ve finally come out, and if I don’t see you have a good time of it you might never show your face again! It’s just good form to show your friend here a corker too, mission for a lost "certain somebody" accomplished or not!”

"Ever sporting of you, Mr. Farrow," said Holmes, with a winning, curled grin that I found to be perfectly underhanded.

"God in Heaven, call me Thomas. Mr. Farrow is my father and if his name was uttered merely three times in a place like this I think he'd keel right over." Thomas essayed a rakish, youthful grin of his own. "I'll tell you what, I'll ask around for your Peter. I've been a member for even longer than our good Captain here and people trust me well enough."

"If it's no trouble," I said, and Thomas scoffed.

"Please, it's almost like one of your mysteries, eh, John? Always wanted a swing at one myself. Leave it to old Tom. And for God's sake, get this one a drink before someone does it for you." With a wink, Thomas was off, and I concentrated on not sighing aloud.

"...Charming fellow,” Holmes said, voice rich with subdued mirth. “Very effusive.”

“An understatement,” I said, not unfondly. “He’s a good friend, and right, too. He has been a club member for some time, he’d know who to ask and the right way to ask it.”

“An unexpected resource. Shall we begin our own reconnaissance?”

“H— _William,_ ” I said, voice somewhat tight. “Do not take this the wrong way, but I think it’s best we remain at the bar and wait for Thomas to do his rounds.”

“We did not come all this way just to wait at the bar, John,” Holmes said coolly, and I barely restrained a jolt at the sound of my Christian name in that voice.

“We have plenty of time this evening to find Peter,” I insisted, praying my voice and expression were as level as I hoped they were. “In the very least, we should wait until the first performance of the night. There is every possibility that the man himself might walk in to carry on the third night of a particularly irresponsible bender.”

Holmes leaned closer to speak in my ear at a more clandestine volume. “Possibly, but highly unlikely given young Mr. Ables’s testimony of his brother’s character.” A dark eyebrow edged up to Holmes’s loose hairline. “I do hope you are not stalling our investigation for fear I will expose myself. Your poor faith in me is beginning to sting, Watson.”

“It’s not that,” I hissed under my breath. “Heaven’s sake, Holmes, for all your powers, you cannot tell me you haven’t noticed?”

“Do you refer to the several men who have been tracking our movements since we first entered?” Holmes turned to me with a wry smile. “My dear fellow, I may be new to it, but I have not forgotten the manner of bar we have found ourselves in.”

I quelled the desire once more to sigh loudly and at length, and resigned to delivering a scowl his direction. “If you detach yourself from me, you will find yourself surrounded by potential suitors faster than a pin dropping.”

Holmes blinked rapidly, and his mouth coiled into a crooked grin. “Your concern is touching, Watson, as is your evaluation of my appeal—” Within my chest my heart thudded, and my wheeze of surprise mercifully transformed into a passable scoff, “—but I assure you, I am quite capable of managing myself.”

Holmes was underestimating both the power of his own attractive novelty and the forwardness of the patrons around us. The last thing we needed this evening was Holmes frustrated from an inability to escape a throng of flirts, I told myself, and I crossed my arms at him.

“Indulge me,” I said, mildly exasperated, and with a considering look, Holmes eventually bowed his head. 

“Very well,” he said, and I sighed with relief. Holmes lofted an eyebrow. “Until your colleague returns. But then I shall use my own methods, potential suitors or no.”

Gratefully, I said nothing, and we began our silent observation of the velvet-upholstered entry hall as bar-goers began to trickle in at increased speeds. On our way here, Holmes had given me a description of Peter Ables that he had gathered on his journey to town this morning—he had visited the man’s coworkers to confirm Fred’s story and had gathered some information of his own, pertaining to the man’s work schedule. Peter Ables—a handsome young man, according to his peers, with wavy shoulder length hair, brown eyes, and a slender comportment—had _not_ worked the hours that Fred had first put forward to us. In actuality, he had been scheduled for early morning to late afternoon shifts for the past two months, and his evenings were free. Something had prevented Peter from coming home every night, and Holmes and I had our suspicions it was the Circle, and moreover, the man’s new lover.

“The first performance should be starting soon." I said. "Shows start at the same time every night." I looked around, and the bartender caught my eye almost immediately, as if he had been waiting for my signal. “We should make an effort to blend in.”

“A capital idea, John,” Holmes said, eyes glittering. The inside of my cheek would be a tattered mess by the end of the night, if he was going to continue to voice my Christian name in that manner. There was no comparison for Holmes’s demeanor when he was on a case. Everything about him seemed heightened: his eyes shined like quicksilver, sword-sharp and captivating, his voice insinuated into the air with cool intensity, and even his movements seemed to dance the line between electrified and graceful—he was like bottled lightning, crackling and alive. People would be drawn to him like magnets throughout the night. Mournfully, I shifted towards him on my bar stool, hoping against reason that my closeness would deter any passerby.

Holmes raised a finger and thumb and Johann nodded to us, finishing up with another customer and eventually drifting our direction.

“Ale or wine, gentlemen?” Johann was a tall and well-built fellow, blond and handsome in a somewhat hardened, masculine way; his voice, as indicated by his name, had a bit of an accent that I did not recognize—Scandinavian, likely, but where specifically I could not say. He moved behind the bar with practiced ease, sidling up to us with a small smile. "Something from the tap? Whisky?"

"Johann, was it?" Holmes flashed his most charming smile. "Wine, if you please, your best red."

"The same," I added.

"Cabernet?" Johann asked me, and I laughed in surprise.

"Am I so predictable? I haven't been here in months!"

"Not at all, Doctor. I have a good memory, your taste is not in question."

"Forgive my impertinence, my good man," Holmes began, as Johann retrieved two crystal glasses from below. "But I have recently returned from abroad and your accent is incredibly familiar to me. I don't suppose your family hails from the Scandinavian regions? Norway, perhaps?"

"You have a good ear, Mr. Vernet," said Johann, his arctic blue eyes brightening. "Sweden is the countryland of my family, my ancestral home. I misspent much of my youth there."

"I was in Stockholm not two months ago," Holmes enthused, with a dandyish twist of the wrist. I buried a smile at the more flamboyant mannerisms of his character for this evening. "Positively bracing mountain air. An invigorating country, of well-invigorated people."

"Stockholm," Johann said, his gruff voice softening with longing. "It is the city of my birth. I have not been there in many years."

"Ties to home can often be the most potent," Holmes mused sympathetically, convincing enough one could almost believe he was a man who enjoyed small, trite conversation. "What ties brought you here to England, my good man?"

"As much as I may miss it, Sweden has not been home to me since my youth." Johann poured wine into both glasses with masterful control. "It may surprise you to hear it, but fond as my memories may be of the beauty of the Swedish countryside, some parts of the world are even less welcoming of...certain lifestyles. Police raid this neighborhood every other day, and yet it is still safer than the back alleys in which I grew up." Johann smiled good-naturedly. "I am not so eager to leave my life, or my business, behind."

"Your business?" I echoed, shocked. "Johann— _you_ are the owner of the Circle? I had no idea!"

"It is not something I advertise to my clients," said Johann, somewhat amused. "But it can be...a useful thing, listening when no one thinks to remember you are there."

"And you tend you own bar?"

"It is a good way to know the goings-on. Such as how much money you friend Thomas owes me on his tab." He tossed me a wink. "That, and I enjoy tending bar. You meet the most interesting people."

Around us, conversation receded like a wave, and I swiveled on my bar stool to see someone adjusting the gas lights on the stage.

“The first show is about to start,” Johann said. He pushed our two glasses towards us, the corner of his lip curling in a subtle smile. "I hope you gentlemen enjoy the show." At that, he drifted away to assist another customer.

I tilted my head towards Holmes. “I wonder if you’ve ever had the opportunity to see one like this."

Holmes’s smile was muted and strange. “I have seen a good deal many things on the Continent, my dear man.” I lifted my eyebrows in response to that, but before I could think of a response, music began to spirit out from the curtain behind the stage: a swell of romantic strings, tickled ivories, and provocative brass. A slim hand reached out, liquidly parting the curtain, and a figure slipped out onto the stage, sending up a round of howls, whistles, and expectant applause.

The figure on the stage was dressed in a daring, starlit navy gown, with smooth lines and a silhouette that clung to every curve. Sweeping petal rouge defined delicate, round cheekbones, and their hair hung in smooth, ebony ringlets that shimmered in the low gas light. Their dark eyes were small and thin, accentuated by striking kohl similar to Holmes’s, and their powdered brown skin seemed to glow in the hazy corona of gaslight and tobacco smoke.

I had seen them perform before, and I leaned back with my wine glass to listen, gladly, as the crowd died down and June began to sing.

 _“Seated one day at the organ,”_ they crooned, at such a silky and low timber that the room began to howl in approval. I recognized the Sullivan tune, but had never heard it in such a style. Transfixed, I watched as they moved forward across the stage towards the pianist, as confident and graceful as an opera star. They smoothed a gloved hand across his shoulders as he played, their painted lips stretching into a smile. _“I was weary and ill at ease...”_

Distracted by the performance, I barely noticed as Thomas came up to my elbow.

“Good news, chaps,” he whispered, and Holmes pressed close behind me to hear the man, a warm line against my back. “The ladies have heard of your man, and are willing to talk to you before the next set ends. They’re waiting backstage, preparing for their sets.”

“Fantastic, Thomas,” I said, but he shook his head.

“But only you, friend William. They’re intrigued about the Circle’s newest member, I think.”

“I’m happy to satisfy their curiosity,” Holmes purred, and I resisted the impulse to pinch the bridge of my nose as he slipped by and followed Thomas away. Discomfort and a quieter, more untoward feeling slithered in my stomach as he slipped out of sight, bedroom eyes tracing his shoulders as he went.

Feeling rather adrift without Holmes at my elbow, and irritated with myself because of it, I gestured for Johann to pour me another glass of cab. I did my best not to interpret the knowing look on Johann’s face as I moodily slid my fingers around the stem. For several minutes I sat and sipped, and soon applause went up and the singer June went into a bow; even my mood was not immune to their talent, and I clapped my hands together with the crowd too. As the noise died down and the band cued up for another set, a sudden voice echoed at my shoulder.

“Drinking alone, Doctor?”

I resisted the urge to sigh. Now was hardly the time.

I twisted in my seat and found a rather handsome stranger had occupied Holmes’s empty stool, his suit, hair, and smile a triad of sleek confidence. He leaned across the bar with a cool, but not inappropriate, ease, and I lifted an eyebrow.

“I would introduce myself, sir, but it appears you already know my name.”

The man's confidence gave way in half-hearted contrition. “Forgive me, I should have introduced myself first and spared you the discomfort. Quincey Mulberry, a pleasure. I meant to make your acquaintance when last I saw you here, but I’d not seen you come by in some time.” His accent, American and gravelly, was as unfamiliar as it was pleasant.

“Ah, yes. Well, I have been busy,” I said, carefully taking his leather-gloved hand in a cordial shake. He really _was_ rather striking, I thought, with smoothed copper hair and a brassy moustache, and striking green eyes the color of ivy.

“Like most readers, I know that all too well,” he said, his smile taking a rather winning glint, and I chuckled at the flattery. Feeling a small flutter of interest, I weighed the wisdom of making pleasant conversation over questioning other patrons about our young client’s brother. It had been a terribly long time since I had engaged in this dance, and I found I had missed the exchange and confidence it inspired in me with equal measure. “You’re a rather infamous member here, even considering the Circle’s more...high-level clients. I hope you’re not opposed to entertaining a fan for a few moments, if you have them? I saw that you were alone, and thought at least I could offer you my company.”

“Very generous of you, Mr. Mulberry,” I said, quirking an eyebrow at the man’s unsubtle roguishness. He reminded me of more than a few fellows I had known in Afghanistan, upright and direct in both mannerism and intention. “I am not necessarily unopposed to your company, but I must confess that I am not here unaccompanied.”

“Quincey, please,” said Mr. Mulberry, his accent seemingly deepening as he tipped his bowler, and I found myself laughing good-naturedly at his forwardness. “And...I admit, the fellow you entered with did not escape my attention, but...” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “He isn’t here now, and I like to consider myself a man of opportunity. At least, when it comes to meeting fellows I admire.”

“I suppose there is no harm in that,” I allowed, grinning. “But I shall make you no promises, should he return and request you vacate his seat.” I found myself blinking in surprise at the words as they left my mouth. The idea of Holmes witnessing this interlude was like a bucket of ice water dashed down my back. What would he even say, if anything at all? Would he be disappointed I deigned to waste my time on flirtation, when we were here on a case? He was working, and meanwhile I was indulging my loneliness with wine and an amorous American.

“Have—have you been a member here very long?” I asked, my happiness wilting somewhat as I endeavored to at least make some headway that Holmes wouldn’t find useless.

“Goin’ on eight or so months now,” said Quincey. “Business brought me to this island country of yours and will keep me here until the end of the year, at the least. Took me a couple of weeks to learn about this place. Helluva attitude your government has towards pubs like these, Doctor.”

“Yes,” I said unhappily. “It is unfortunate.” I sighed, squaring my shoulders. “But we have persevered and shall do so regardless. To arrest us all would be to arrest half of Parliament, it seems.” I inclined a head to the other end of the bar. “And some of their wives.”

“I will drink to that,” Quincey said approvingly, and lifted his pointer and middle finger at Johann. “Some whiskys, barman.”

“Oh, no, I'm quite—” I was not inclined to indulge in both whisky _and_ wine on the job, but Quincey shook his whiskered head.

“My treat, Doctor,” said Quincey, teeth polished and perfectly white, and I sighed internally that we had to meet tonight, of all nights.

“I don’t suppose there is room on your dance card for another, sir?” I nearly closed my eyes at the sound of another voice on my other side. Of all the rotten luck, to be—

I turned, and through sheer force of will, my jaw managed to remain hinged.

“Forgive me if I am interrupting, gentlemen," Holmes said, with a voice like woven silk. I searched for words and found I could not manage a reply. I could not concentrate on anything but his face. Where before, darkness had lined Holmes’s eyes, now their lids were shaded with ashy powder, making his eyes glitter like veins of silver in rockbeds of granite. His face was powdered pale and perfect, and soft rouge swept in rosy, Cézanne brushstrokes across his cheekbones. His thin, expressive mouth had been painted in a flush, inviting pink, just a shade darker than its natural color, and my heart seemed to batter against the gate of my ribcage at the sight of his loose hair, which had been mussed enough to appear nearly disheveled, almost as if someone had run their fingers through it like I had craved to— 

“I—” I managed, gaping with awe. His irises shone like liquid steel as they drifted from my expression to the man beside me. With his tinted lips curled in a vainglorious smile, Holmes glided forward, and along my right side, he pressed close enough that I could smell his rosewater perfume. My thoughts swam as whatever intimate space between us was eliminated, and he bent his head close to mine.

“And you were concerned _I_ would be the one besieged,” Holmes whispered, smug against the shell of my ear. Immediate and potent, arousal rushed through my body. Heat spread across my face like a wildfire, and I forewent any attempt at speaking as Holmes lifted his voice to a more audible volume and slid his gaze to the man sitting by me, who was lifting a titian eyebrow in our direction.

“I see you’ve made a friend, John,” Holmes said, at a louder volume. Somehow, his chosen accent had become even more sophisticated and imperious than before. “How very quaint.” 

To my shock, I felt my friend’s leather-gloved hand move to the small of my back.

“Ah. William,” I managed, as my eyes threatened to fall out of my skull. His touch was like fire, burning me through my suit jacket. “This is Mr. Quincey Mulberry—”

“Who was just expressing his admiration for your good friend’s stories in the papers,” Quincey said calmly, the warmth in his eyes somewhat dimmed. "I won’t infringe on your evening any longer.” 

He leaned forward, eyes sincere, to whisper in my other ear. “It appears you have your hands full this evening, doctor. Perhaps next time.” And with a wink, Quincey Mulberry was gone. With a satisfied expression, Holmes slithered like an eel into the spot he had vacated.

“Holmes,” I breathed, “what—”

“The ladies were all too happy to tell me about Peter Ables, my dear fellow, once I expressed interest in their makeup techniques. And I was more than happy to be their model and learn them, provided they tell me all they knew.” 

“I see.” My voice was not as strong as I wished to be. “The...the effect is quite striking.”

“Thank you,” Holmes said, seemingly aglow. For a surreal moment, I wondered how my friend would react if I admitted how becoming I truly found him. “It is not the first time I have worn such artifice, but it has been long indeed since I had another apply makeup to my own face with skill. The process can actually be quite soothing, and there is much to be learned from their specific techniques regarding the...enhancement of certain features and the diminution of others. Remarkable implications for my work.”

“You have worn ladies’ makeup before?”

Holmes leaned in. “There was actually a point in my sojourn where I lived as a maid in Berlin for three months,” he said, low and cavalier. “It was actually quite amenable to my lifestyle, and even more so for the purposes of ensnaring one of Moriarty’s lieutenants. The man was woefully paranoid of everyone but his servants, and it was all too easy to lead the police to his door after he let enough slip in my earshot. There is so much whispered in front of those society seeks to ignore, Watson.”

I made a concentrated effort not to think of Holmes in a maid’s frock. I failed considerably. His eyes glowed with the thrill of the chase as he leaned closer, and the room around me grew uncomfortably hotter.

“I believe it’s time we head back to Baker Street, Watson, to discuss what I’ve learned.”

That was one of the better ideas Holmes had ever had. I needed fresh air, and the night cool to marshal my self-control.

"You learned all you wanted to know?"

"And then some. Come, before I am pressed to extricate you from the grasp of another suitor."

"H- _William,"_ I said, blushing furiously, and Holmes released a devilish little chuckle that did little to reduce my mortification. Moving to my feet with legs that were more unsteady than they should have been after only two glasses of wine, I dug into my pockets to leave money on the bar, and as I was doing so, Holmes hooked his arm around mine.

"Your young friend has spotted us. Will I have to deter him as well?"

"Oh, hush," I hissed, and Holmes lifted an ebony brow.

"John!" Thomas cried, sidling through the crowd. "Are you leaving already?"

"Afraid so, Thomas," I said, with false regret, "William and I must be going, but perhaps—"

"—Perhaps we will return sometime soon." Though his half-lidded eyes were impassive, Holmes's grip on my forearm had tightened, and my throat worked in a swallow.

"No luck with your man, Vernet?" His eyes dropped to Holmes's hand, and his face split into a smile that would've made a nun titter. "...Or perhaps so."

"Thomas—" I croaked.

"As much as it pains me to see you go before midnight, old boy, I'm glad you'll be going with company. Be safe on the way home, gentlemen. And do your best to restrain yourselves in the carriage. Patience is virtue _and_ reward." He winked saucily and sauntered off, leaving me red as a tomato and Holmes tugging me away untouched by the insinuation.

We moved arm in arm through the entry parlor and out into the crisp October evening, and soon every inch of me was chilled in the night breeze—every inch, but for where Holmes’s arm entwined with mine. Leaving the Circle’s front door and strolling down the busy street like so many others—my blood hot with liquor, embarrassment, and something deeper and altogether more unwise—I could not help but wonder what it would be like to do so in earnest. To walk down the street with Holmes at my arm, openly, not as friends but as something more. A vice squeezed tightly around my chest at the memory of Holmes’s low voice, his proprietary touch at the small of my back. I did my best not to stare at him in the corner of my eye as we looked for a hansom, still transfixed by the way powder and color emphasized and defined his noble features.

Holmes’s arm shifted and I watched his other hand search his breast pocket and retrieve a handkerchief. Promptly, he began to dab the cloth to his lips, wiping away color and leaving a smudge of pink on the ivory. The sight of it tugged at something within me, curling a hook around my diaphragm. Clenching my jaw, I raised an arm and hollered for a cab a tad louder than was necessary. My voice blasted its way through the crowd and secured us a ride, and as the two of us climbed in and Holmes's arm dropped mine, I ignored the feeling that something nameless and vital had just slipped through my fingers.

* * *

On the cab ride home, Holmes eagerly filled me in on what he had learned backstage.

"It's been a very productive evening, Watson," said he, with visible relish. Carefully, he began to peel away the false facial hair clinging to his face. "This case runs deeper than I had imagined."

"How so?"

"I have reason to believe that Peter Ables's disappearance is more than it seems, my dear fellow. Judging from what I learned from the ladies backstage, this kidnapping may play only a minor role in a much more nefarious dealing."

"Kidnapping!"

"I believe that our client's brother is alive, and in fact being held as collateral to ensure another party's compliance."

"Collateral—good lord, you mean to say he is a hostage? But for who? Why? Who could possibly be responsible?"

"All will be revealed, Watson," said Holmes enigmatically, folding his hands. "But not until we are safe within the warm walls of Baker Street. Pray, give me time to think, and once home, I will share with you everything I have surmised."

At a loss, I could only shrug my shoulders and sit in my burning curiosity for the long ride home, arms crossed tightly against my chest as our knees knocked together. For the entire journey, memories of our night in the Circle swirled in my head, a cauldron of hot feelings and growing self-recrimination. What I required was a night alone in my room and a tub of ice water, not space to think with my legs brushing against my friend's and Thomas's parting tease muddling my brains. When we finally arrived home, I clambered out of the carriage faster than a man with motion sickness.

Eventually, we made our way upstairs and Holmes swept to the settee. For a moment, he paused where he stood, back to me as he contemplated something in the welcoming fire Mrs. Hudson had stoked for us, until he abruptly turned to me on a heel.

"A drink, Watson?" he asked, carding a hand through his mussed hair, and I blinked in surprise. Holmes rarely, if ever, indulged in alcohol in the midst of a case. As a depressant, it maintained an effect opposite to that which he pursued in the thin metal of the needle. Perplexed, I watched as he began to pour the both of us two fingers of brandy. Hoping a third and final drink for the evening would dampen the queer skittishness of my nerves, I accepted the glass from Holmes as he stepped close, fortifying a smile.

“Thank you, Holmes,” I said quietly, feeling strangely unwilling to breach the silence of our rooms with a loud tone of voice. “Won’t you tell me what you’ve learned, now?”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” said Holmes, genial. He lifted his glass to his mouth, taking a measured draught. “My conversation with the ladies backstage was particularly stimulating. I observed several informative aspects about the process and steps required to prepare for a stage like the Circle’s, and a great deal many techniques that I can apply to my work. I have always wanted the option to move in disguise as a woman, Watson, it would be an indispensable skill in my repertoire.” Holmes took another drink. “They were somewhat reluctant to share any information with me at the first. They’d only invited me back to inspect me, I believe.” He chuckled. “They were well acquainted with Peter Ables, Watson, and were concerned on his behalf that a stranger was inquiring about him.” Holmes’s smile broadened. “And claiming to be a former flame.”

“Ah.”

“I managed to convince them of my earnestness, conceding my genuine interest to learn the manner and tools of their trade. They were pleasantly surprised. As they applied powder to my face, they told me all they knew of Peter Ables. Or as they know him, Petrice.”

“Petrice?” I asked, eyebrows moving to my hairline.

“Peter Ables is a fellow female impersonator at the Circle, Watson. It explains why you never recognized him, and did not remember his name from your time there.”

“I see! But Holmes, I believe you’re skirting the more pressing details.”

Holmes bent his head in a rippling chuckle. “Mmm, forgive me,” he said, eyes twinkling, “you know how I enjoy building up to my deductions. The second vital clue my newfound friends delivered to me was much more revealing. The lover, Watson.” Holmes stepped closer to me, head bent with furtive delight. “If rumor is to be believed—and I do indeed find its sources credible—then Peter’s new lover is none other than the Circle’s owner.”

“ _Johann?_ ” I gasped. “Truly? Then whyever did we leave without speaking to him, Holmes? Do you believe him to be responsible for what's happened to Peter?”

“No, certainly not. I told you that bartenders were remarkable sources for information, Watson, but I did not expect the treasure trove of knowledge to be learned from him the moment we entered. The second I uttered Peter’s name, Johann took notice, and began eavesdropping avidly on our conversation. With skill, if I may add. No doubt it comes from practice.”

“Eavesdropping? If he is not responsible for Peter’s disappearance then—” I rubbed my hand with my jaw. “By Jove. He is searching for Peter too. He knows his lover is missing and seeks to find him.”

“Precisely, Watson. Judging from the stress lines and dark circles on the man's face, his creased clothing, and the slight tremor in his hands, I don't believe he has slept in some time. All signs point to him being a victim in this. But you’ve not heard the most crucial element.”

“Let’s have it, then!”

“The performers told me that as of late, the Circle—like many other pubs in Ratcliffe—has been forced to accommodate the increasing conflict between two rival gangs: the Threadcaps and the Derry Cutthroats. Members of former have been seen harassing Johann quite regularly after closing these past few weeks.”

Gang trouble. Not unheard of, considering Johann's line of business. Often, it was a choice between them and corrupt Yarders when it came to keeping the doors open and clients unhassled. “Whatever for?”

“According to their reliable testimony, Johann is being pressed to purchase and sell Threadcap smuggled liquor,” Holmes said. “Johann, so far, has refused.”

The blood drained from my face. “Good God. But he will. You believe they have taken Peter to force Johann to agree.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes, grim. “But I do fear that even if Johann should comply...Peter will not be returned.”

“My lord,” I breathed, horrified. Though our situations were not the same, I briefly imagined a world in which Holmes had been taken to ensure my compliance in something terrible. Dread and certainty filled my stomach like hard iron. I feared there was little I could not be brought to do, with Holmes’s life on the line. “What do we do?”

“We cannot go to the Yard. Peter will almost certainly be killed if word escapes that they are attempting to move smuggled goods through the Circle, and it would bring risk to the Johann, the Circle, and all its members—yourself included. No, we must locate Peter on our own.”

“But how?

Stony eyes glimmered in the firelight. “We are going to send a telegram to Johann tomorrow, Watson. We are going to tell him to accept the Threadcaps’ deal.”

I gaped. “But you only just said—”

“And while you and Johann meet with those brigands, I will endeavor to locate Peter Ables and free him.”

I blinked, took a drink, and closed my eyes. “...You cannot be serious, Holmes.”

“I am beginning to believe you have no confidence in my abilities at all after today, my dear fellow.”

I opened my eyes to see Holmes smirking at me, somehow closer than he was moments before. He looked, as always, singularly handsome, his statuesque nobility sharpened in the firelight to fine, hewn panes. He was of uncommon and strange beauty: too sharp and too thin, with a rapier smile and deadly intellect to match.

“I would not go so far as that,” I said, voice steady through the yawn and ache in my ribcage.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Holmes, mouth twisting in a grin. “Let me comfort you further with the promise that I _do_ have a plan.”

“That is a relief,” I agreed, smiling fondly despite myself.

“As you know, I have amassed much by way of knowledge regarding the criminal underworld. The Threadcap gang is a minor operation, young, with footsoldiers that are easily bought and even more easily followed. Good fortune has it that I possess a short list of addresses of their warehouses for their smuggling already, but I have had no reason to bring about their arrest—yet. I’d say now is the perfect opportunity to bring their safe houses to the attention of our friend Lestrade.” His eyes simmered with amusement. “He will be a darling in the press. He may finally earn that promotion that’s been coming his way.”

“And Peter?”

“I will send our Irregulars to observe each address tonight. Due to their dispute with the Cutthroats, it is likely these Threadcaps will be on their guard, but I trust in their skill. We cannot allow Peter Ables to come to risk by hoping he is not killed in a Yarder raid, so we must ascertain his location first and extricate him. While they are occupied with your deal and contending with the Yard, I will infiltrate said hiding place, liberate Mr. Ables, and escape before the Yard descends with clubs raised.”

“Is that all?” I asked dryly. “You need only narrow down a list of buildings across London that are impossible to look into, sneak in unseen, free Peter, fight off any gangsters, and emerge unscathed before the police arrive. How perfectly simple.”

“You really are in a state this evening, Watson,” Holmes replied. I looked heavenward for patience.

“I have already narrowed the safehouses down to two possible locations,” he continued, smirking, and I started in surprise. “His colleagues at the shipyard told me Ables was last spotted leaving his shift Thursday afternoon. His fellow impersonators last saw him depart after his set late that evening. It is likelier that his abductors lay in wait near the Circle for the end of his performance, rather than tracing his movements back to his home in Old Nichol. Furthermore, it is also doubtful that they dared transport him very far from the site where they took him. With those parameters, there are only two safehouses in Ratcliffe they could be keeping Mr. Ables. My Irregulars will survey both, and tomorrow morning, I will instruct Lestrade to raid the building where Mr. Ables is not.”

“Where he is not?”

“Panic can be a useful distraction, if manipulated carefully. I am confident word will spread that the police are out for blood.” Holmes flashed white teeth. “If not, I will be happy to hasten the message. In disguise, of course.”

“...I do not like the idea of you going alone, Holmes,” I said, grim-faced. In sentiment, my words were an understatement.

“I need you to ensure Johann’s safety, Watson. You and Johann will meet the Threadcap representatives in a neutral location. The Yard will wait at a distance to arrest them, but _only_ after a certain time. There is every possibility that negotiations will fall through, that the Yard could miscalculate their timing, or that word of raids could reach the ears of these gang members too early. Johann will need your protection, and your service revolver.” Holmes met my gaze, expression serious. “I do not relish the idea of sending you alone into peril either, but we have little choice. Not if we wish to rescue Peter Ables with the least amount of risk possible.”

I lifted my glass to my lips, pensive over a fiery swallow of brandy. “If you truly believe this is the safest option...” I said, and reluctantly nodded. “I trust your judgement, Holmes. But please...do be careful.” I gave him a look. “None of your usual risks—not without me.”

Holmes’s eyes seemed to smolder. “I would never dream of it,” he said, voice velvety. I felt heat in my cheeks as I realized how close we had become, standing in front of the mantle. Holmes had abandoned his empty glass on the sill, and the distance between us was so little I had to crane my neck upwards to meet his gaze. His face angled over mine, his height looming tall and dark, and his slow, curling smile sent warmth flooding through my limbs.

“Watson,” Holmes said. My fizzing blood leapt at the sound of my name in his low tenor.

“Hmm?”

Holmes’s irises shifted like metal mercury. “Why did you stop attending the Circle?”

I blinked in surprise. “What?”

“Your...friend, young Farrow. He said it had been months.” Holmes inclined his head, voice sleek and curious. “Why did you stop? Certainly not for lack of friends... atmosphere...” His mouth twitched. “Or pursuit.”

I flushed. “Ah. Well.” _Because you came back from the dead. Because your return was all I could have ever wanted._ “The...the news has turned for the worse. I did not want to risk exposure...or bring the police to our door. And I did not expect I could go often without you suspecting something.”

Holmes pressed his lips together. “I see,” he said. His shadowy eyelids fell to half-mast. “Is there no other reason?”

His voice was muted enough that I had unknowingly drawn closer to hear it. I stared hazily at him, my heart pounding. He was near enough that I could smell rosewater once more, that singular perfumed scent Holmes’s keen senses preferred above all others, and it intoxicated me. For a frozen moment, I thought I caught a glance of Holmes’s eyes sliding from mine to my mouth, just as I was drawn to consider the soft, inviting pink of his.

In an instant, the world around me snapped into clarity. The heat which stirred my blood fled, leaving me cold, and I found myself drawing away from the atmospheric warmth of Holmes's body, mouth bone dry. _My God, what am I thinking? This is_ Holmes. _Get a hold of yourself, man._

"Forgive me, old chap," I said stumblingly, fighting the awful blush rising in my cheeks. "But it's time I should turn in.” In front of me, Holmes stiffened. “I've indulged myself beyond my limits this evening, I believe I'm starting to hallucinate." 

The quip was pitiful, as far as even my humor went, but I had no intention of lingering any longer in what so nearly had become a colossal, unprecedented misstep with my dearest and closest friend. Making to retreat, I spun on a dizzy heel and began to make for the stairs before the embarrassment in my veins caused me to catch fire.

"Watson," he said, suddenly, and in such a voice that it stopped me in my tracks. I turned, blinking, and saw that my friend was wearing an expression I could only call stricken.

"Please,” he said. “It...is I who must apologize. You are..." The long column of his neck convulsed in a swallow. "You are not imagining things."

The floor seemed to fall away beneath me.

"I—"

"Your observations were correct. I was—I have been...intimating. Performing cues so as to indicate—that is, I have been, intentionally—"

"Flirtatious?" I finished, stunned. Holmes paled, and his silence was my answer. "I...I don't understand."

"Watson—"

"Because of—because of what I confided in you this morning?" I said, voice faint with disbelief. "Because of the case?"

"Yes," said Holmes, and I felt my face freeze in horror. Holmes threw up his hands, face almost pleading. "No! Watson—do not mistake me. It is true that since you shared that aspect of yourself with me I....I confess it has lingered on my mind. I am—I am curious, you see—"

“Holmes." His name in my mouth had never been colder. "I am not one of your experiments."

Regret swept over my friend's face, disarming me with its intensity. "No, Watson. You could never be that."

"Then how do you explain this? This game of yours?" My voice, despite myself, weakened in my throat, vocal chords straining under a cruel, invisible bow. "I cannot bear to be toyed with this way. I...I thought better of you. Of our friendship, at least."

"Watson," Holmes said softly, my name a low note of despair. I closed my eyes. My fingers seized over the brandy glass in my hand, and I resisted the urge to volley it across the room and send it shattering.

"Please," said Holmes. "It is not my intention to hurt—"

"Your _intention_ ," I echoed, eyes opening to see the great Sherlock Holmes flinch. Acid had crept into my voice, scalding away the cold. "Is that your excuse? That your manipulations aren't meant to confuse and mislead me, that so long as your curiosity is sated and you mean no harm, I'll be left untouched? Unbothered?" My voice had risen now, wounded pride and heartache tempering its strength like the heat of a forge. "For God's sake, Holmes, you cannot—you cannot be so cruel as that."

"No," Holmes said weakly. "No, Watson. Allow me to explain. Please."

I'd never heard that word leave my friend's lips with such frequency, nor had I ever seen him look so aggrieved. It was this, and only this, that kept me where I stood instead of storming out of the apartment to escape the mortifying agony of betrayal.

My barbed silence taken as agreement, Holmes's proud shoulders slumped. "Watson. When I said I was curious, I meant it. But not in the way you accuse me of. Heaven forbid I ever again fall so low in your eyes."

He swallowed again, and the reflection from the fireplace danced warm light across deep, uncharacteristic uncertainty.

"These matters...are difficult for me to speak of," he said quietly. "I deplore that which escapes me, and few things confound me more readily than these notions. They frustrate, in a manner beyond comparison."

Holmes looked downwards, avoidant. For a figure I had seen tower over lesser men, he looked to me then strangely wary and thin. "For all our years of friendship, there are things which we simply do not discuss. Our families. Our childhoods. Banalities, which hold little interest to me and little use to you in discussion. There are elements of myself that, for much of my life, I have been content to ignore. But recent events...they have caused me to wonder."

I was unmoved by his sentiment. "You cannot be serious," I said. I set my glass down upon the tea table with enough force that the wood creaked in protest. "I know you, Holmes. Possibly better than anyone else in this world. A single case and a personal revelation from me cannot rewrite a person's very nature. And certainly not a man of such an unyielding and stubborn nature as yours."

Inexplicably, color seemed to bloom in my friend's alabaster cheeks, low red and inappropriately becoming.

"I confess this introspection did not begin with this case," Holmes muttered, his eyes trained on the Indian rug. My mouth fell open. "I thought merely that now would be an opportune time to test my hypothesis, given certain... circumstances. The environmental stimuli was as inspirational as it was ideal."

"You," I started, but found myself at a loss for words. Hopeless, I echoed, "Environmental stimuli?"

"The case, Watson," he explained, voice fraying. "With your confidence in me, and the atmosphere of the Emerald Circle, I thought it the perfect opportunity to—to determine—"

His words were like a knife to my abdomen. "If I had feelings for you?" I asked, hollow.

"No!" Holmes now looked near frazzled with dismay, eyes wide, his careful composure disheveled. " _No_ , I beg you—do you truly believe me the machine you described me as in your stories? Have I failed you so in our friendship that you could assume such cruelty from me?"

My eyes stung, and I shook my head once, not trusting myself to speak.

"Let me finish," Holmes pleaded. "Let me finish it all and then judge me for my actions. I never wanted—would never seek to cause you pain, Watson. Grant me the chance to explain myself, before damning me completely."

Swallowing hard, I nodded once more, and Holmes sighed, heavily enough to drag down his proud shoulders.

“Damn my nerves,” he said bitterly, closing his eyes and lifting a hand to knead his brow. “I should have known better to indulge in drink. I’ve made a mess of things, more than I might have free of its influence. I’ve been so foolish, Watson. Careless.” Glacially, Holmes moved to the back of his study chair, hands resting on its upholstered frame as he turned away to stare into the fireplace. A short silence fell as Holmes stared unblinking into flames, his face caught in flickering orange light, and I watched him, waiting, unable to move or speak.

“When I was abroad in the Continent…" Holmes hesitated. "I missed your companionship. More dearly than I imagined I would.”

Pain flickered in my chest, and I willed away forgotten tides of grief, oceans of loneliness.

“I found myself, in those first few months, strangely unable to accept your absence. My choice to leave you behind in London was born of logic—to keep you from harm's way, and destroy what was left of Moriarty's organization. But after I left England, my once-singular focus was divided. On the hunt, my mind would...wander, inevitably, to your welfare. Just as often, I wished you were beside me, knee deep in the danger. It was...irrational. I knew you were safer at a distance. That I worked better alone. But despite these facts, despite all the years I had spent tracking down and eliminating criminal elements in the time before I met you, I found I could not banish you from my thoughts, not completely. The work compelled me, as it always does, to success in destabilizing Moriarty’s network. But an aspect of myself, one that remained stubbornly outside my dominion…longed for your company.”

In the firelight, Holmes’s masked expression was immutable, but his hands on the upholstery tightened and released.

“Returning to London, to our partnership here, briefly satisfied that unruly quarter in me. But time passed, and that part of myself which had so irrationally desired your presence did not abate. Rather, it intensified. For weeks, I could not comprehend it. Why did something within me remain fixed on you, try to reach for you, when both of us stood in the same room? Why did the need for your company not subside once we were reunited? It _dogged_ me, Watson, and it angered me, because where once our friendship had been a positive outlier in my history with others of our kind, now it seemed…insufficient.” Holmes’s cool mask cracked, and he dropped his head. “No. Not insufficient. It was not that your friendship did not sustain me. It merely incited more. More within me, and a greater, more foolish desire to…”

Holmes trailed off into a sharp exhale. He clenched his jaw once, shaking his head. “I cannot put it into words still,” he said, vexation leaking through his façade. “I don’t _understand_ it, but…I have begun to feel things for you I have never felt for another living soul. It is incomprehensible that I should experience such feeling _,_ after a life where discipline, logic, and data have been my only chosen masters, yet it is as undeniable as it is fundamental. I cannot marshal them any more than I can curb my need for oxygen or my itch for the syringe, and I have _tried_. Despite all efforts of repression, distraction... the feelings remain. The thoughts persist, and evolve to straits I once found disagreeable, in the rare occasion I formed them at all." Holmes's fingers dug into the leather. "And the part of myself that could not be silenced in your absence now resounds in your presence.”

Finally, Holmes turned his head, and his eyes found mine. It was not possible, but I thought for a moment he could hear the sound of my heart racing.

“What I want from you can no longer, by any definition, be labelled platonic. It is beyond the Greek. If my imbecilic attempt to seduce you has told you no better, here it is plainly. For however little I understand its implications, I desire you. Against every scrap of logic and sense, against my _will,_ it seems, I want from you what men who love other men create with one another.”

I was staring at him, I knew, with a shock that had rattled its way into my marrow.

“Or at least…I believe I do,” Holmes finished, and for a moment anger flickered across his face, rolling darkly across his expression like thunder. “It is beyond me. Beyond my comprehension, beyond my experience. It seems I no longer know myself. I feel things for you in a language I do not know how to speak. I experience urges that would imperil the sanctity of my partnership with you, which I value above all things. I’ve lost control, Watson.”

“Holmes,” I whispered.

"And now I have injured you,” he said. “And to what end? I know nothing of this. _Wanted_ nothing of this. _Romance.”_ He spat the word. “We are not men of such sentiment, we do not value _frippery._ For all that I smear the pathos in your stories, it is fact that you are not a creature for soppy poetry or knitted gifts! You are not meant for the doldrums of a partnership that stagnates on fading compliments and coquetry! We are the same in that. The very same. I was satisfied. I _am_ satisfied! My friendship with you is more than I ever dreamed I could endure, let alone desire." His hands fisted. "Your partnership, your presence in my life—it is _anomaly._ Before you, I maintained _distance,_ Watson. Space that I never conceded to another before knowing you, that I considered myself above sharing. Other people had only to that point disappointed me, and I believed myself above them, what they could offer me, independent of such piddling urges. Relationships with others, they only produced fluff to clear, cotton in the mind—obligation and expectation which distracted from my work."

Abruptly, the fire in his words ebbed. "Then you and I found an understanding," he said. "You were proof I was not above such simple ties. That there was reward in connection, that I could find..." Holmes trailed off, and my heart hammered in my chest like a heavy door knocker. "A quality of life with another, vastly improved after a life of chosen solitude." A beat, and the aged pain in his eyes faded, replaced by something much more vivid. Something sharp and intense, pried open and lain painfully bare. I stood transfixed by him, staring like a man catching a glimpse of something secret, not meant to be observed by idle eyes.

“Watson," Holmes said, softly, plain. "I am a selfish man. The few things that I value, I covet. Before you, I did not hesitate to take what I wanted, nor avoid that which I believe I detested. But your friendship is more than I ever wanted from another soul. You are exemplary. Your meaning to me is singular. And you have proven me wrong, and so my mind demands answer to the question of whether it is possible I am _still_ wrong. About myself. About myself, where you and only you are concerned."

He stared at me, eyes boring into my very soul. He was bared, so sharp and so vulnerable that I could not recall how to draw breath.

"Holmes..." I said, when I could manage it. My heart was burning in my chest like a bonfire. "That is...precisely romantic."

"Is it?" he asked helplessly. "I cannot say. I do not know, have never wished to know, but now I..." He trailed off once more, appearing to me as wretched and lost as a man adrift at sea. I found I could not bear to leave him there, and the truth tugged at me, emboldened by words which had untethered the soul in my chest.

“Holmes…” I gathered my courage, and I reached for words that I had harbored in the hope chest of my heart for nearly seven years. “I care for you more than I have ever cared for another. I would have lived a life in total happiness as your friend and your friend only, content with the joy of our companionship. I never told you my true feelings for fear of driving you away with the degree of fondness which I held for you.” My voice, despite the earnest nature of my words, featured the slightest tremble. “But now you say that you have feelings for me that I can only call romantic, and have for possibly years. That I am… _exemplary._ ”

Holmes watched me, wordless, eyes glimmering in the low orange light.

“There is nothing I would not give you, should you ask it,” I said. My heart _thudded_ in my chest, hard and heavy with the truth of it. “But I fear what should become of me, if I hand myself to you, and your curiosity finds me lacking.”

“I could never describe you with such a word,” Holmes whispered.

“But you cannot know your limits if you have not tested them. Understand me, my dear fellow, that I fear, more than anything, being little more than a failed experiment.”

Holmes opened his mouth, but wretchedly, said nothing. After a moment, his expression gripped with sorrow, he said, “There is no one else.”

I closed my eyes, despairing how my heart yearned in my breast at the words, foolish and wanting.

“It is you, Watson, or no one.” His voice was guarded, quiet, but in the space between us, after years of Holmes sequestering his emotions below the surface for fear being seen as a man who bled like any other, every word rang loud and clear and surreal. “I trust no one else. Desire no one else. It is you I’m curious about, who occupies my mind and attention like no other.” 

I opened my eyes again to see his gaze fall to the floor, his expression shuttering away behind panels now blasted with holes.

“I swear to you that if you have no wish to indulge me, that you shall never suffer this line of inquiry again. I would not risk our partnership or your affection to satisfy my whims.”

I stared at him, at his anguish and hesitation, and believed he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. How could I not? How could I look at him and want anyone else? How could I deny him anything, let alone my heart, when he already possessed it?

I had never been able to refuse him anything. I could hardly begin now, when it was him I wanted against all wisdom.

“…Very well,” I said, very likely sealing my fate. Within my flawed skeleton my heart rejoiced, and my mind cursed my weakness.

Holmes’s chin jerked upwards in shock, eyes stretched wide. “Watson?”

I slowly spread my hands, surrendering. “What do you want of me, Holmes?” I asked. “How can I satisfy you?”

Holmes stared at me, lips parted in a pale pink sliver.

“I—” His voice faltered, and he looked more uncertain than I had ever seen him. “I do not know.”

I lifted an eyebrow, and swallowed the sudden and mad impulse to laugh. It did not precisely surprise me that Holmes had attempted to seduce me before even knowing what it meant, or truly how to do so, but it did, on some level, inspire amusement. The most intelligent man in all England, and he hadn’t a clue how to court. “Our friendship has its intimacies, Holmes, but there are things we do not do that other couples perform. Assuming that _is_ what you want from me? A formal relationship?”

Holmes sighed, his dark brow furrowed. “It is as I said before, Watson. Insofar that I desire you to be at my side and no one else’s, I am unsure what that truly entails.” He spoke honestly, unaware of how his words struck me like a loose bullet. “ _At my side and no one else’s.”_ However could he claim to know nothing of romance? He would render me a swooning mush upon the floor without even realizing it.

“Holmes, a relationship does not have to contain anything you don’t _wish_ it to,” I said, shaking my head. “Some may prefer…“frippery”, as you called it, but it's hardly a requirement. I have been a part of relationships with both men and women, and their definitions came from _us,_ not Austen novels.”

Holmes frowned at me, listening intently, and I realized I perhaps needed to be more explicit. “Expectations were set after a discussion about what we wanted, from each other, and from the partnership. Not everyone’s idea of a romantic relationship is the same. If were to…if you wanted to enter one with me, there is little real need to change. _You_ don’t have to change, and neither do I. Between us already, there is trust. Cohabitation. Shared sentiment and interests. We spend ample time together both on cases and off them. For many people, that forms the lot of what romantic partnership _is.”_ In retrospect, it was alarming how I had not previously recognized our concert sessions and trips to the country as potentially romantic escapades, when now, they could hardly be described as anything else.

Holmes was still staring intensely at me, but at my words, a tension had been released in his shoulders, and his bearing seemed the closest to normal it had been all evening.

“All that is left unknown is…romantic and physical intimacy. Judging from your behavior a few moments ago, and your new…feelings, I can only assume you have interest for this with—with me?” In the last moment, I stammered with sudden nerves.

I watched as Holmes flushed a mottled scarlet. “I…Yes. But I do not know my own limits.” The confession clearly was a source of embarrassment and deep underlying frustration. “I never experienced the desire to…touch another person, before you. I cannot tolerate the touch of others as it is. But over time, I have become accustomed to your occasional tactility, and I…do not dislike it.”

“I am glad to hear it,” I said, breathless. I felt light as air with the knowledge that Holmes, the most unique and talented man on this earth, desired the feeling of my skin, and welcomed my contact alone. Its warmth outshone any buzz of drink, and heated my blood like a centrifuge.

“So you would like to determine if could prefer more intimate touch, from me. And you would like to touch me to your satisfaction in return.”

If it were possible, Holmes blushed deeper, his porcelain skin turning red as a summer rose. “Essentially,” he said. “This is most awkward for me, Watson. I detest being so uninformed. I feel like a boy in boarding school. _Worse,_ as I am a man grown.”

“It is good fortune I am here then,” I said, unable to resist teasing. “And that I have experience in negotiations such as these.”

Holmes’s blush faded as his face twisted dourly. “It is a side effect of my affliction for you that I care little to hear of your previous entanglements, Watson. That _Quincey_ at the Circle was irritating enough.”

I could not help but chuckle, disproportionately charmed by the expression of jealousy. It was lighter and sweeter than the feeling that Holmes’s behavior at the club inspired. “A common reaction, my dear Holmes. I will refrain, then, for your sake.” Holmes narrowed his eyes at me, and I smiled. Slowly, my mirth transmitted to him from across the room, softening his handsome features with a gentleness that made my chest flutter.

“That leaves us at romantic intimacy,” I said, with false bravado as heat climbed up my neck. “I believe we are of the same mind regarding commitment and monogamy. That our plans for the future are—erhm. Intertwined. But where are your preferences in the realm of…open affection?”

Holmes scrunched his nose, possibly unconsciously. “Do you refer to those pet-names couples award each other?” His mouth twisted in reluctance. “I suppose if you required me…”

“You are not obligated to call me _darling,_ Holmes, _”_ I said, endlessly amused, and laughed outright at the relief that crossed Holmes’s face. “But some…positive reinforcement wouldn’t be out of order.”

“Positive reinforcement,” he echoed. “I thought I was already quite vocal about your many virtues, Watson. You are most certainly outspoken about mine. Is romance reinforced by redundancy, or merely praising that which is obvious?”

“Holmes,” I said, sighing his name.

“I suppose I can be moved to extol upon the aesthetic appeal of your features—however obvious it may be that you champion your sex by way of physical traits, moreover the whole of your species in modes of kindness, bravery, and honor.”

I spluttered, face burning, and Holmes continued in the same conversational tone, “And I suppose I can be encouraged to wax poetic on the unique and uncommon cerulean coloring of your eyes, and the reliable strength of your hands, and the alluring quality in your voice when you are concerned for my welfare or righteous in anger...” 

His idle comments broke off and he paused at the sight of my no-doubt luminescent cheeks.

“My dear Watson,” he said, and the incomparable light of discovery sparked in his eyes. “You are _rosy._ Remarkable. I daresay I now see the appeal. It is regrettable I did not know the effect of such compliments on you sooner. We might have arrived to this conversation much earlier, and without as much fumbling on my part.”

“Right,” I managed, clearing my throat, and Holmes’s mouth split into a sudden and white grin.

“Is there anything else you would have us share?” he asked, and the return of smooth confidence to his voice struck me low in the stomach.

“There is only the physical left, Holmes,” I said, and nerves skittered like butterflies beneath my skin.

Holmes looked similarly unbalanced, his newfound confidence disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. “Ah,” he said quietly. “The most complicated aspect. That where I have the least amount of experience, and even less understanding.”

“I would rush you to nothing. We need not participate in it at all, or never more than once if you find there are…actions, or sensations not to your favor.”

Holmes swallowed visibly. “I…the impulses I have experienced are not based in any known reality. They are…recently developed, and strike me at the oddest times. I know only that…that I wish to try. That I _want_ to is radical enough to move me to action, Watson. Before, what little I had been exposed to of…sexual relations had seemed to me base. Messy. Overwhelming in some aspects, uncomfortable in others. But…” Holmes cleared his throat, fingers anxiously drumming the study chair's upholstery. “I would be willing to try. With you only.”

I felt suddenly humbled by the admission. I tried to recall the first time I had ever felt stirred by thoughts of another, and remembered how in my youth, it had taken years to learn my own preferences, how to accommodate others, and what was possible between two people in intimacy. I could not imagine the fear of going a life without urges, only to encounter them without warning oriented towards the only friend I had in life. I felt sympathy well up like spring water in my gut. I realized then, definitively, that I needed to proceed with utmost care: to preserve my friendship with Holmes, yes, but to spare him any discomfort or heartbreak I could. For all that my friend hid behind a mask of emotionlessness in unfamiliar company, I knew him to be particularly sensitive. Rushing into physical intimacy could altogether frighten him away, or worse, damage him irrevocably.

“Listen to me, Holmes,” I said, and allowed myself to finally breach the distance between us by stepping forward. He watched me wearily, but not in any way to make me believe he feared my closeness. And against better wisdom, the urge to finally approach him and take the liberty I’d never been offered, to wrap him in my arms, was incredibly powerful.

“You must be honest with me, if we are to do this,” I said, holding his gaze to impress my seriousness.

“Watson,” Holmes interrupted, frowning, and I shook my head.

“Holmes. I love you.”

Holmes’s eyes went wide, grey eyes shining like the Thames in the early dawn.

“And because I love you,” I whispered. “More than anyone, I cannot be yours in this way until I trust you will tell me the truth, when your boundaries are overstepped. I must trust that you are not concealing your true feelings to spare mine.”

“…I understand,” he said, voice unexpectedly fragile. “I…I will be as honest as is within my power.”

“Thank you. I will endeavor to do the same.” My pulse quickened in my chest, and I took another step forward. Holmes watched me, eyes tracking my every movement. “Then all that remains is what you want. I do not believe we shall reach my limits before we reach yours.”

Holmes looked at me, eyebrows tented upwards. “I do not know where to begin,” he said. “I have…I have never placed myself in a position to know. I do not even know the sensation of a kiss, beyond descriptions in literature.”

My gaze fell immediately to his mouth. It was slightly thin, in complement to all his fine features, and his lips were of such comely natural pink that I had often agonized over them in my lonelier hours. No one on earth knew the feeling of those lips upon theirs. The idea that this could change, that it could change _soon_ and that I would be the only man alive privileged to their contours, electrified me like a bolt of lightning.

“I see,” I said, and not for the last time that night, I summoned my courage. My eyes returned to his, engaging their attention unwaveringly. “Do you want to know it?”

Holmes stared at me. A beat passed where my heart climbed to my throat, and eventually, the silence was broken.

“...I would not be unopposed,” he said.

Pulse fluttering like a hummingbird had been let loose in my blood, I carefully stepped closer. In a handful of footsteps, I eliminated the distance between us, and I was finally near enough to feel the heat of his body once more, looking into his eyes with every cell in my body tense in anticipation.

"May I take the privilege, Holmes?" I whispered. “And be the first?”

I watched, heart turning over with thrill, as Holmes's pupils dilated. I wondered if he were aware of the response, if he were truly as conscious of his bodily processes as he had proposed to me once before.

"...Yes,” he said, and it was the first time I had ever heard Holmes breathless.

Like a man afraid to disturb a dream, I reached for his face. Reveling in the feeling of smooth, alabaster skin beneath my fingers, I traced a path up Holmes's cheeks. For a moment I paused, offering him the opportunity to withdraw as our breaths mingled. Holmes said nothing, watching transfixed, the grey of his eyes thin-circled around pools of obsidian. I closed the distance and closed my eyes, turning my head and drawing my lips slowly against his. I did not rush to capture a lip or pry lose a sigh; I savored the novelty, the feeling of a silken, thin mouth against mine, and applied gentle pressure. My hands slid up past Holmes's cheeks, thumbs resting on cheekbones as my fingers sought the short, dark tangle of his hair. I felt Holmes shiver, and I found myself cataloguing the response, employing methods I had learned from the world’s greatest mind. After a moment, I pulled back, heart fluttering in my breast.

Holmes opened eyes that had drifted closed, and I treasured the color that had bloomed beneath the fair skin of his face.

"Amenable?" I found myself asking, proud that my voice did not shake.

Holmes swallowed. "Quite," he said. "But I was under the impression..." He looked briefly embarrassed, and I found it terribly endearing. "In the spare times I have caught view of couples exchanging such things in public, there seemed to be much more...interchange, involved."

"Only after two have become familiar with each other, and the practice. Some prefer less...animation in a kiss, or prefer stimulation elsewhere." I lifted an eyebrow. "Where do you fall?"

"How am I to know?" Holmes asked, eyebrows furrowing, and he scowled. "It's not my intention to—do not mistake me. That was...enjoyable."

"Oh?" I said, and could not suppress my smile. I had never been told that with such a determined expression before.

"Yes," said Holmes. There was an expectant moment, and he crossed his arms. "Well?"

I smiled, warm to my core. "Hmm?"

Holmes frowned. "You don't intend to—" His face cleared, flickering with annoyance. "You want me to invite you to, don't you? To say it aloud." He glared, but the look was undercut by the flush in his cheeks. "Watson. I require additional data. Indulge me?"

"Well, when you ask me like that," I said, and leaned forward. "Shall I...add some animation?"

Holmes swallowed again. "At your discretion," he said, with bravado. I grinned, and happily obliged. Sliding my hands back to where they had found a home cradling Holmes's face, I gently tugged him downwards into a kiss. Gradually, heart hammering against my ribs, I deepened it, mouth slotting over a bottom lip and carefully coaxing it with my teeth. I tasted tobacco and brandy, and inhaled the scent of ash and roses. My fingernails carded back through Holmes's hair, and he pulled back an inch to inhale, sharp and shaking in my ears. Another article of evidence to store for later reference.

"Have you formed a hypothesis?" I asked, when I could recall words through the heady feeling clouding my mind. 

"Evidence is falling into place," Holmes murmured, and I could almost trace a thread of bashfulness within it. “A conclusion is forthcoming.” He lifted a hand and lightly brushed fingers across his upper lip. “Your moustache tickles, Watson.”

I laughed out loud. _That_ I had heard before. Happiness swept through me like summer breeze. Taking a page from Holmes, I found I craved more data, more evidence of his reactions. But I could not rush him. Could presume nothing, neither of his preferences or his experience, which was very likely nil.

"Holmes,” I said gently. “May I...put my hands on you?"

Holmes stilled, but for all purposes did not look like he intended to rabbit away.

"...Where?” he asked eventually. “I...like them, where they were.”

I inscribed that to memory, the edge of my mouth twisting upwards. "For now, your hips."

Holmes ticked an eyebrow. A beat of deliberation, and he said, "...Very well."

My hands moved gladly to his body, as if drawn by magnets. I rounded my palms across Holmes's tapered waist, burying the delight the minor contact elicited in me.

"How does this feel?"

"Pretextual," Holmes huffed, and I chuckled.

"It doesn't have to be."

"Watson. I will tell you if I am no longer comfortable. You needn't treat me like china."

"You're hardly that," I said, squeezing my hands to the point, and Holmes issued a low noise torn between amusement and surprise. It was one of the more wondrous sounds I had ever heard, and I committed to provoking it more often in the future. "But I have no desire to subject you to something you do not consent to. You are welcome, of course, to reciprocate any action I perform upon myself, my dear man."

Holmes pressed his lips together. Experimentally, he lifted his own hands and gingerly placed them at my own waist. Chuckling once more, I trailed my fingertips feather-light down Holmes's arms to lay hands over his, guiding them more firmly to my hipbones. Then, unable to resist, I returned my hands to the slim column of Holmes's waist, and with breath catching in my lungs, slowly eliminated the inches between us.

"Is this alright?" I asked, now close enough to whisper in Holmes's ear.

"...Yes," Holmes said, voice low. It had shed its uncertainty, and some other quality had replaced it. Interest had transformed into headier straits, and the sound of it heated my gut like kindling. Slowly, I slid my hands up the cool cotton of his back, and inclined my head upwards to take his mouth with mine.

Suddenly, there was a sharp _crack_ at the window, and I jumped in Holmes’s grip. A high, distant whistle echoed through the window glass, and Holmes released a sigh that only just trembled at the edges.

“That will be Wiggins. I signaled for him when we stepped out of the cab.” Holmes looked acutely regretful. “I must give him his instructions.”

I chuckled. “Perhaps it is for the best,” I said gently. His eyes flickered questioningly to me, and I shook my head. “For tonight, Holmes. We have a case to focus on, and a young boy is depending on us having a clear head for tomorrow. As much as it may pain me—” My voice lifted in amusement as I lay a hand upon his chest. “—this can wait.”

Holmes looked torn, appraising me with narrowed eyes as though skeptical of my willingness to divert the course we had stumbled on, but eventually his shoulders drooped. “You are right,” he admitted. He lifted his hand to where mine rested over his heart, sliding his violinist fingers between mine. “And the more moral party between us, naturally.”

I blushed. “You would have made the same decision in a few moments, I’m sure.”

“I am not,” Holmes said, lifting an eyebrow, and I huffed, withdrawing my hand as an increasingly familiar heat welled in my chest.

“Don’t leave poor Wiggins waiting,” I said, smiling. I felt as if I were bleeding affection. “It’s cold as blazes out.”

Holmes sighed. “...In the morning, we will review, and I will confirm your meeting spot with Johann.” He stood unmoving, watching me intensely as I moved towards the door to the stairs. 

“I will see you in the morning,” I said, voice soft.

“Sleep well, Watson,” returned Holmes, at the same tender volume. Feeling like the lead in some penny-farthing romance, I buried the willowy exhale trapped in my throat and nodded.

“Good night.”

I closed the door behind me, and once on the other side, felt all the air rush from my lungs in a mighty gust. 

_Holmes is in love with me,_ I thought, dazed.

Pressing fingers to my mouth at the memory of his lips on mine, I felt my face break apart in wonder.

* * *

Impossibly, sleep took hold of me that night like the fist of Morpheus. It proved to be a blessing that I had not been kept awake, sleepless after a night of revelations that would have left me flightier than gossamer, for Holmes would wake me just before sunrise the following morning with a tentative touch to my shoulder, whispering it was time to put our plan into motion.

Holmes’s squadron of children had delivered their report sometime in the early morning while I slept, and we had likewise received a telegram from Johann agreeing to meet me in Holmes’s choice of location. Somehow, he had been convinced to agree with Holmes’s plan, after Holmes had confessed his identity and interest in rescuing Peter along with all he had discovered about their plight.

“Scotland Yard has also sent me back their reply,” said Holmes. “Lestrade is hardly pleased with the vague nature of our message, but he has moved on my advice with less.”

“He won't be disappointed,” I added, cleaning my service revolver with mechanical proficiency. 

“What he will be is _busy,_ if he and his officers would be so obliged as to follow my instructions. To the letter, God willing.” Though he crackled with indomitable energy, the worry in his eyes as he looked at me tugged at my abdomen, and I swallowed the same fear with soldierly effort. In all our cases, the two of us had never gone into danger without the other before. I prayed that things would go precisely to Holmes's plan.

"We will meet back here when all is said in done, with Johann and Peter."

I nodded. "Yes, we will," I said pointedly.

"Watson..."

I did not wish to hear anything close to goodbyes or worst-case scenarios. They would only distract my focus when I needed it most.

"I will see you soon, Holmes," I said firmly, tucking my revolver into my belt and straightening my coat.

"Be careful," said Holmes, expression tight. Yesterday, the thread of concern for me would have rattled me to my core. Now, it only fueled my determination to see this done, and to see out what would become of us, now that the truth of our affections had been shared.

Marching forward, I took Holmes by the jaw and planted a prompt kiss on his mouth. "You will save Peter Ables and come home safe to me," I said, and my tone left no room for argument.

"At your command, doctor," he replied, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Stay sharp."

And with that, I left Baker Street for Ratcliffe, my heart hollow with dread and my pistol burning a hole in my coat.

* * *

The address that Holmes provided me was a block east of the Circle, an empty building that appeared to be an old tailor shop, by the looks of things. Its windows were boarded up and the entire place was layered in a veneer of dust, but it was empty, had two exits, and would do for our purposes.

Johann appeared ten minutes after I did.

"John," he said, his rugged face pale and hard. Holmes’s observations ringing in my mind, I could see the strain splintering beneath the surface of his expression. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. "You could have told me what you and your partner were doing."

“We weren’t certain ourselves until last night,” I said. “We were asked to investigate by Peter’s younger brother only yesterday.”

“...It will be three days now,” Johann said hoarsely. “They’ve had him three days.”

Sympathy welled in my chest like an icy spring. “Have faith in Sherlock Holmes, Johann,” I said, coming close to clap a hand on his shoulder. “We have a plan to save Peter and rid yourself of the Threadcaps. For good.”

Johann licked cracked lips. “They sent me back a message agreeing to the meet a few hours ago. They will be here soon.”

I nodded tersely. “I have my service weapon, should we require it. But if all goes right, it will not be necessary. You recall the instructions Holmes gave you?”

Johann jerked his chin. “Yes. To stall until exactly nine ‘o clock.”

I thumbed open my pocket watch. It was eight forty-five. Somewhere in this neighborhood, Holmes was facing unprecedented danger alone. I despised being parted from his side, but I needed to believe the advice I gave Johann—I needed to trust in Holmes’s plan, and his abilities.

Before us, the front door swung open. Morning light split through the darkness of the condemned building as four men loped in, loitering and crude-faced. Unspoken, they branched outwards into the room, each taking up position surrounding us and blocking the front entrance. On each of their heads was a brown, threadbare cap, and at their belts were old Webleys, dark metal shining in the shadows. Measuring them up, I felt my grip around my cane tighten. Johann was a well-built man, and Holmes had built upon my skill with close-combat that I had first learned in the war, but four men in close quarters, all armed with pistols, would be a challenge without assistance.

Parting through the sea of armed guard, a final man entered the room. His walk was leisurely, a confident amble with his hands tucked in his pockets. His cap was akimbo on a mass of dirty black hair, and his mouth was stretched into a smile that chilled my stomach. This was their lieutenant, no doubt. The rank and file waited expectantly for him: their leader in direction and arrogance both, it seemed. 

“Mr. Larssen,” the man said, eyes like obsidian below the brim of his cap. “We are so pleased with your decision to work with us. I’m sure your...friend will be relieved to hear it.”

“Where is he?” Johann demanded, through gritted teeth. His fear was convincing, but his anger was sincere. Johann’s great hands were clenched at his sides into fists that shook.

“Alive, Mr. Larssen. If my boss is satisfied with our agreement, he will be returned to you soon.”

“Unharmed?” Johann insisted.

The lieutenant smirked. “Mostly.”

Johann hissed and I lifted a hand to his shoulder.

“But already I am concerned, Mr. Larssen.” Ink-black eyes moved to me, narrowed into slits. “We instructed you to come alone. For all of your sakes, I pray your man is not a member of the Yard.”

“‘I’m not a policeman. Merely a friend,” I said carefully, spine straight.

“A friend,” the man scoffed. “Did you ask some invert from your club for help, Mr. Larssen?” I rankled at his derision, but the man shrugged his shoulders in dismissal. “It’s no matter. Even if you’re armed, we outnumber you.”

“I agreed to a deal,” Johann said. “I will sell your liquor at whatever price you set. Now please, just let Peter go.”

"Do not fret, my foreign friend. But forgive us if our trust in you is...tentative. We are at war in this little parish. The money we intend to recupe through your— _quaint_ molly house will be instrumental in our efforts to maintain security over our borders. So you understand if we are...apprehensive that you will deliver on your promises."

"I've done everything you asked," Johann growled. "I've not called the police. I've agreed to your terms _and_ your cut. What more do you want of me?"

"Merely to establish trust," said the lieutenant, benignly spreading his hands. "We want to see our mutual business flourish. This is an opportunity for you, Mr. Larssen. Our liquor is quality, friend. In exchange, we only require your taps, your storerooms, and your silence. Your friend will be returned to you intact if you can demonstrate your compliance in this partnership of ours."

I narrowed my eyes. "And how long must he do so, before you return Peter home?"

The man's thin lips curled into a switchblade smile. "That all depends on you, Mr. Larssen."

Johann's nostrils flared. "How. _Long."_

"A month of good business should prove your trustworthiness, good sir."

"A _month?"_ Johann snarled. "You promised his safe return if I agreed to your terms!"

"Negotiations can be awful fluid," said the lieutenant, voice like an oil slick. "But rest assured, we will see to our end of the bargain." He lifted a dark brow. "And I needn't tell you what will happen if you don't see to yours."

Johann visibly boiled with rage, but after a moment, the red left his face, and his proud shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine," he said, voice dead. "Whatever I must do. Just...please. Do not hurt him."

"We won't damage your little plaything, Mr. Larssen," the man sneered. "He is in good company. Safe as houses—"

Suddenly, the closed door behind him burst open, and all five Threadcaps whirled, hands at their belts. My heart leapt to my throat. It was too soon.

"Johann," I hissed. I gestured behind me, towards the tailor's bench behind us. His eyes widened in realization, and as one we crept backwards towards cover.

"Worthy!" The man cried, young and panicked beneath his flatcap.

"What the devil are you doing here?" The lieutenant snapped.

"It's the Yard!" he cried, and every gang man went white as a sheet. "I just heard, they're raiding every quarter from here to the Strand! I saw them on Nile Street—"

"SCOTLAND YARD!" A familiar voice javelined through the open door. Every hand drew up a pistol. "YOU'RE SURROUNDED, GENTLEMEN! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

"How did they—" Worthy began, and his lips pulled back in a snarl. "You _rat—"_

His hand found the grip of his Webley and he swung round his arm, only to scream as I pulled my own trigger, firing a bullet directly into the muscle of his bicep.

The first shot delivered everyone to the floor, and I dove behind the tailor's counter just as a hail of bullets sailed over my head. Thunder rolled in my ears as I shouted for Johann to stay down. I dared glance over the counter to see two men, barrels trained on us, and the others facing off at the door and boarded windows, firing upon the Yard.

Worthy was puce with rage, one hand clutching his bloodied arm and the other leveled in a bee line at my head. I flinched, ducking down and cursing as one of his bullets sent my hat flying from my brow.

"Johann—!"

I reached for him only to stare as he returned fire with a weapon I didn’t realize he’d possessed. With crack aim, his shot met his mark and sent a Threadcap man crumpling to the floorboards, clutching his chest.

“You’re not the only man here who knows how to defend himself, Doctor,” Johann said, through a chilling smile.

“We should make for the back-door!” I cried, over the roar of gunfire. “They’ll have no choice but to be forced back, and I don’t want to be between them and escape when they do!” Johann nodded sharply, and the two of us, as the bullets lulled and men reloaded, sprinted for the exit.

“Oi, they’re getting away!”

Just as we vaulted through the back door, white hot fire lanced across the north of my shoulder. Gritting my teeth through the pain of it, I pressed myself to the wall once through and waited. Holding my breath, I counted the seconds and swiftly raised my arm. A man hurtled through and I swung downwards, tripping him at the ankles. He sprawled forward and Johann raced to kick away his pistol. I arched back and struck the next man through the door in the stomach with the heavy metal knob of my walking-stick. He wretched, collapsing to his knees. Without hesitation, I dashed his gun from his hand with another blow. The movement left me vulnerable, however, and I found myself freezing like prey at the sight of a barrel pointed precisely at my head.

“Don’t move, rat,” Worthy hissed, crimson seeping through his fingers and down his shirtsleeve. Ice water filled my stomach as I prepared for another flare of heat and searing pain, but suddenly, the man went stiff as a board.

“I wouldn’t try it,” a voice said, and I nearly buckled with relief.

“Good to see you, Lestrade,” I said, exhaling loudly. The Inspector tipped his head at me.

“Likewise, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade said, with a tight, proud smirk. “We’ve had quite the productive morning, haven’t we?”

“I would say so. How did the other raids go?” I asked, wincing as I tucked my gun back into my belt. Blood, hot and dark, stained my unscarred shoulder, weeping crimson above the bone. It hadn’t struck anything vital, but it hurt like the very devil.

“You bastards,” Worthy hissed. “How did you know? Who turned on us?”

“No one, my good sir,” Lestrade said loftily. “You’re just bloody sloppy.” The man looked apoplectic, and Lestrade gestured to a fellow officer. “Cuff him, and the rest. Call for a few buses.” He eyed me. “And another doctor.”

I scowled. “I’ll be fine. Have you heard from Holmes?”

“I have,” Lestrade said shortly, mouth twisting. “I don’t suppose _you’ll_ be able to shed any light on what all this is about, or how our mutual friend just handed me one of the biggest busts of my career?”

“Later, Inspector,” I said, sharing a glance with Johann. “I'm afraid there is someone we must see to, first.”

His eyes went wide, shining sapphire bright in the early autumn morning. “Yes,” he said, breathless. “There is.”

* * *

We made it to Baker Street in record time. I grimaced the entire ride as the hansom rolled over the cobblestones, jostling my wound, but I would not have diverted our journey home for anything, not even stitches.

The moment the cab stopped, Johann hurtled from it like a man aflame. I lumbered after him, leg and shoulder aching fiercely after such a dogfight now that the adrenaline had faded, and when we finally made it up the stairs, I let loose a mountainous sigh of relief.

Sitting in the living room was a slender young man, pale as parchment but unharmed, and Holmes, a bloody scratch on his brow but otherwise, perfectly pristine.

“ _Johann,_ ” the man gasped, and Johann lurched forward. Both of them ran to each other, catching the other in an embrace that filled my heart like sunlight.

“Watson!” I heard, and Holmes was on his feet. He marched over to me, eyes wide and fixed on the fearsome stain beneath my handkerchief-wrapped hand. “Good lord, what has become of you?”

“I’m quite alright, it’s merely a flesh wound—”

“You've been _shot,_ ” Holmes accused, storm clouds rolling across his countenance. “Heavens above, I thought they taught you to duck in the army—”

“It barely grazed me,” I snapped. “And what of your face, you look like someone took a knife to your eyebrow—”

“ _Hardly,_ ” Holmes said witheringly. “It is merely a scratch. _You,_ however, are dripping blood all over the floor. Mrs. Hudson is going to have a fit.”

“Mrs. Hudson has seen far worse than a bit of blood,” I scoffed. “You’ve come home in much poorer condition before. It would have gone according to plan, but a footman escaped the Yard's net and delivered a message that the police were on the move.”

"Of all the incompetent, useless..." For a moment, Holmes looked incensed, but just as it quickly as it came, the irritation disappeared, fragmenting into something infinitely more delicate. Hesitantly, as if unsure he had permission, he reached for me, the faintest tremble to his hand as it moved to press against my heart.

“Thank God you’re alright, Watson,” he whispered.

A pebble had grown in my throat. “I’m glad you are as well,” I said, voice thick. It was a relief down to my very soul to see him standing, whole and unharmed. “A mere scratch is a blessing.”

"I never want to go into battle without you again. It was intolerable." Holmes swallowed hard. "My focus has never been so compromised." Echoing his movement from last night, I took the hand pressed to my chest and threaded my fingers with his, squeezing in reassurance. "Please...sit down, Watson. I will fetch your medical bag.”

I was guided to my study with careful hands. I avoided the sight of Johann and Peter, locked in passionate embrace, as Holmes tenderly helped me out of my ruined jacket and prepared a bowl of water and clean bandages.

Eventually, Johann and Peter broke apart to breathe, and they turned to us with matching pairs of tearful eyes.

“What can I do to thank you?” Johann asked. 

“How can we make this up to you?” Peter pursued, his alto voice quivering.

“We were glad to offer our assistance,” Holmes said, rolling up his shirtsleeves over finely-haired biceps with businesslike crispness. "No payment is necessary."

“We could hardly deny a request from such a charming client,” I added, exhaustion spiriting much of the volume from my voice. “Young Fred was most adamant that we locate you.” At prodding, I unbuttoned my vest and shirt, easing my shoulder out for Holmes to treat with little thought to modesty. Pain, like liquor, had an effect of making me care little for offending the sensibilities of others.

“Freddie,” Peter said, tears slipping from his dark eyes. “God, it must have frightened him so much. And he came to you?” Peter shook his head, amazed. “Such a sharp boy. Stubborn as Mum was."

“He is waiting for you eagerly at home,” Holmes said, eyes flickering to mine as I winced under a gentle press of wet terrycloth to my naked shoulder.

"Are you certain we cannot repay you in any way?" Johann asked. "You have given me..." He trailed off, and Peter visibly took his hand and squeezed. "You have given me back my life."

"It was a case with its own rewards," Holmes replied, and I couldn't help but meet his ashy gaze, heart in my throat at the softness I found there. "...I assure you, I have been compensated in full."

"We don't know what to say," Peter said, hand on his dirtied chest. "I likely would have been killed without your intervention. I was raised better than that, to leave you with nothing by way of thanks."

"The greatest thing you could do for us, Mr. Ables, would be to return home to your younger brother safe."

"And...if it is within you," I ventured gingerly, "tell him where you have been going in the evenings."

Peter blinked rapidly, blanching. "Tell him? I-I couldn't—"

"If not the whole truth, part of it," I suggested. "So at least, he does not wait for you to come home from work when in reality, you are enjoying yourself after hours. The poor lad is wracked with guilt over your social life, Mr. Ables. He thinks you're going friendless and lonely, taking care of him."

Peter gaped. "Friendless and—my goodness." His features creased in regret. "I had no idea. I...will see what I can do." He exchanged glances with Johann. "I'm not lonely. The farthest thing from it. And I...I know he would like you, given the opportunity." Peter swallowed visibly. "Come home with me? To meet him?"

Johann stared, blue eyes wide, before nodding. "If you're certain," he said. "Then I'd be happy to."

"You've kept the boy waiting long enough," said Holmes, not unkindly. "If you do not mind, I have a partner that needs tending to."

" _Holmes,"_ I scolded, and bit the inside of my cheek so as not to swear as he pointedly pressed the cloth against my wound.

"Of course," said Peter quickly. His youthful face was striking in its joy as he and his lover stood. "We will leave you, but do not expect this to be the end. By my word, we shall find some way to thank you."

"You'll never pay for drinks in my bar again," Johann promised, and the both of us looked at each other and broke into quiet chuckling.

"A generous offer," Holmes said. "One we may take you up on, in time."

Johann bowed his head, and tipped his hat to me. "Thank you for watching my back, Doctor," he said. "I'll have a new hat sent to you in the mail." I laughed and agreed.

"What, precisely, befell your old one?" Holmes said, frowning.

"Ahh," I said delicately. "Well—"

"Full of bullet holes," Johann supplied helpfully, and I buried a wince as Holmes looked at me, knife-sharp gaze pinning me to the chair upholstery.

"Until next time," Johann said, taking Peter's hand. "You are always welcome at the Circle."

"Thank you. For everything."

And with that, we were left alone.

"Bullet holes, hmm?"

I grimaced. "...Well. Yes. But it was only the one—” 

I did not have the opportunity to finish my defense. Holmes, faster than I could blink, had taken my face in his blood-dappled hands and crushed his mouth to mine.

“Never again,” he said against my mouth, teeth grazing my bottom lip. Warmth filled my every cell, and I closed my eyes in novel rapture.

“Of course, Holmes,” I said obligingly, drunk with the furious, clumsy kisses he peppered upon my mouth, as if I could control the direction of all future bullets destined for my cranium at his request. He kissed like a young man did, uncertain and feverish, and it dizzied me, sending me lax and pliant beneath him.

“You will never step foot into danger without me at your elbow, I swear by all the gods,” he muttered, hand sliding up my neck and sending gooseflesh rippling down my spine.

“I am comfortable with that arrangement,” I said, perfectly soppy, and the intensity of his gaze waned.

“...I am glad to hear it,” he said softly. His face so close to mine, I was enchanted by its perfect, chiseled symmetry. Lips flushed pink, his aristocratic features marred only by the brilliant red cut on his high brow, I thought him a sculpture given life. A Roman creation of marble made flesh, sent into battle, and emergent victorious. He was noble, brave, and the most brilliant man I had ever known.

_And he is mine._

“I love you,” I said. Now that I had leave to say it, I found that I wanted nothing more than to do so, over and over again. I reached for his face, tracing a cheekbone with a calloused, copper-smudged hand. “More than anything on this earth.”

Holmes’s eyes glittered like the country sky at nightfall. “And I you,” he said, voice precarious with feeling. His eyes drifted across my face, that genius mind working away at some calculation I could scarcely hope to solve. “You remain the most critical person in my life, Watson. I cannot fathom life without you by my side. It is beyond me, how I came to deserve you...or your forgiveness.”

I did not allow the misery of those cold years without him to touch me. Not here, within his embrace. “I forgave you the moment you asked for it," I whispered. “I was angry. Not that you lied—only that you left me behind. But you returned to me. How can I not forgive you, when to share my life with you is all I have ever wanted?”

“My dear Watson," he said. "I wish that...” Head bowing, his voice faded in anguish. “Deceiving you has been my greatest regret.”

I summoned a smile, my heart overflowing with affection. “You will have the rest of our lives to make it up to me."

Holmes’s eyes returned to mine gleaming, and his answering smile was easily the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. “It would be my privilege.”

 _Not as much as it would be mine,_ I thought. Permeated to my bones with happiness, I found I no longer possessed the faculty to express it, and wordlessly I took his hand and pressed his knuckles to my lips.

“Let me patch you up, my dear fellow,” Holmes managed, after a moment of time in which I would have been content to live forever. I nodded, sinking back into my chair with a bliss I had never known was possible with a bullet wound, and allowed him to take care of me.

And so he proceeded to do so, for the remainder of our lives.

(Or as he would argue, _I_ proceeded to look after _him_. We lived together side by side for the remainder of our days, partners in every way. And in the years that followed, we would occasionally return to the Circle for a night out. Each time, Holmes would never let me pass from his sight, and I refused to allow anyone to buy him drinks, no matter how well-meaning they were. If our nights together afterwards were in any way inflamed by challenge from outside parties, well—that was entirely our own affair.)

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> Woo, and just like that, Holmestice is over! I really hope my contribution makes a good gift :) 
> 
> Thanks so much to the mods and my fellow posters for the opportunity you guys gave me to participate in such a great community. To everyone else—thank you for reading! I had a blast! My goal was Gay Drama worthy of Granada's extravagant cinematography and I believe I achieved it in spirit.
> 
> I hope the tipped-hats to the show weren't too obscure; they're more visual references than anything (ex. Holmes's loose hair, Watson's ass-kicking walking stick).
> 
> The Emerald Circle is based loosely on real gentleman's clubs that existed in London and New York, but my education is somewhat confined to American queer history, so if something seems off there to an Anglophile, the difference probably lies in how gay bars operated across the pond. The green silk band was inspired by Oscar Wilde's green carnations, a calling card for gay men in the 1890s. Quincey may or may not be based on my favorite _Dracula_ character (Stoker being friend to Wilde, I could not resist), and Thomas is possibly an inspiration of more Wodehousian proportions. The song June sings is an oldie but a goody, "The Last Chord" by Arthur Sullivan. ;) Cheers.


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